Congratulations to June Foster! She won the “What’s Your Story” necklace. (June happens to be another WhiteFire Publishing author. Learn more about her HERE).

I did my internship in the Dominican Republic with my good buddy Tim Krauss.

Now, you need to know something about Tim. He’s a Peter Pan. My sister (the counselor) has this theory that the world has a few Peter Pan types. People who are loved by everyone. Everyone. Did you get that? Everyone. And these Peter Pan’s can get away with anything simply by the virtue of being them. That’s Tim. Also, Peter Pan types can motivate people to do anything (like Tom Sawyer getting other kids to paint the fence for him). That, also, is Tim.

I’ve known Tim for almost 20 years (yipes!). In those 20 years I have learned that Tim is capable of making me forget the anxious, safety first, self doubting person I am. He has led me into crazy places to do crazy things. He has also convinced me (and others) to do what really is impossible.

What’s my story? It’s about a time Tim led me into battle. A battle against a basketball court.

***

Part of my two month long internship was to hang out with the mission teams that came down to work. You know. Groups that come for a week to lay brick on a house, dig a hole for a foundation, mix cement on the ground.

Our first few groups had a variety of people. Men, woman, teens. Big, muscular, small.

One group, though, had a few guys (maybe 2) and several girls. Cute girls. Young girls. Cheerleaders. I am not kidding.

“This is going to be an easy week,” I thought. “Cleaning. Painting. Easy.”

And it was.

“We’re going to Monti Christi,” Tim told us one day. “It’s up north and almost to Haiti. We are going to lay cement for a basketball court.”

He told us that cement mixers would be on site, so we wouldn’t have to mix it on the ground with shovels. Easy. Let a big machine do the work. Several men from the church were going to help out. Great. It would make the day go fast. We’d be done and headed back to Santiago before dinner.

Well. That’s what I thought.

And that’s what the mission team thought.

“Today is a day for champions,” Tim said.

We packed ourselves into the vans and the pick-up truck and took off.

On the ride, Tim turned to me.

“When I say it’s going to be ‘a day for champions’ I mean that we are going into battle,” he said.

I laughed, without amusement. I laughed with fear.

“We’re laying an Olympic size basketball court today. And once we start pouring that cement, we can’t stop until it’s done.” His eyes twinkled. “This is going to be a great day.”

I turned and looked at the cheerleaders. They giggled at something. Their little t-shirt sleeves were rolled up and held in place on their shoulders with cute, pink ribbons.

“They have no idea what is about to happen to them,” I thought.

We were taking a cheerleading squad into war.

It was going to be the most physically demanding day of my life.

We arrived at Monti Cristi when it was still morning. Yet, it was already pretty hot. A good sized lizard stood, watching us enter the church compound where the basketball court was to be.

I wanted to kick the lizard. He looked so smug.

I looked at the rectangle of wood that would soon be filled with oozing cement. It didn’t look that big. We could do it.

Two cement mixers whirred and spun, blending the water and powder together. A generator hummed, feeding power to the mixers. Men were already at work, pouring bags full of cement powder and buckets of water into the mixers. Buckets and wheelbarrows full of cement moved through the compound to be poured into the forms.

The more time I spent watching the men work, the more I realized how hard the day would be.

I gathered the cheerleaders.

“Girls, you have the most important job,” I said.

They nodded their heads. I think they were scared.

“See that jug of water?” I pointed. “You just keep filling cups with that water and bring it to us. All day. Okay?”

They smiled. Relieved.

“And tell people that they’re doing a good job. All day. Water and cheering…er…encouragement.”

This is where I wish this was fiction. Because, if it was, I’d have the girls form a pyramid right there on the dirt.

Then, I found my job.

Some of the men from our group were hefting bags of cement powder, carrying them to the mixers. But they weren’t moving quickly enough. They needed more people to carry. I looked at the bags. 43. Okay. Yeah. I can pick up 43 pounds. No problem.

I watched one of the guys lift the bag to his shoulder. He grimaced from the effort.

“Whimp,” I thought.

I lifted from the knees, swinging the first bag on my shoulder.

“I am a champion,” I repeated.

The men around me looked in my direction, mouths gaped.

“What? They’ve never seen a woman lift 40 some pounds?” I thought. “Next time, I’ll carry two.”

Well, I couldn’t lift two. But I did pick up and carry those bags all day. 15 hours.

At one point, Tim walked over to me.

“You’re kicking that cement’s butt!” he said.

I worked harder.

By the end of the day, I could no longer feel my arms. No matter. At least I couldn’t feel the weight of the bags anymore. And we were so close to finishing the basketball court. So. Close.

And we did finish.

The cheerleaders brought one more round of water. Those girls never lost their pep that day. The men mixing the cement were all gray. We couldn’t see anyone’s skin color under the powder. And we were all exhausted.

I sat on the ground for the first time all day. Then realized that I wouldn’t be able to get myself back up. All the strength in my arms was completely gone. I couldn’t even lift my hands off my lap. A few of the guys from our group had to help me.

On the way home, we stopped at a gas station to find something to eat.

“I can’t believe you carried around those bags all day,” Tim said.

“Eh. They were only 40 pounds or so,” I answered.

“No. They were 40 some kilograms.”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“Susie, those bags were 95 pounds each,” Tim said.

And, so, my poor math skills paid off again. Had I known that the bags were so heavy, I wouldn’t have been able to do the work. In fact, a week later, I tried to lift a bag that was the same size and was unable to.

It was a super strength reserved only to be used on a day for champions.

Tell me…what’s your story? Have you ever experienced a Day for Champions?

For the months of October and November, we are focusing on our stories.  This series is inspired by the Breathe Christian Writers Conference which is themed “What’s Your Story”. We’ll have guests, give-aways, fiction, creative non-fiction, poetry…all to celebrate stories. Story is the way we communicate our individuality. How we got where we are. A touchstone for where we come from.  

I’ll go first. This is a story as I remember it.  

My grandpa’s hospital room was on a high up floor of a hospital in Lansing, Michigan. Walking down the hall, we could see the State Capitol building through a window. I walked back and forth across that window, looking at the white peaked building. The strange thing that I remember is that the closer to the window I got, the smaller the Capitol looked. The further away I stepped, the bigger. That particular part of my memory sits, dream-like in my mind.

Twenty-eight year old memories seem to do that.

“When we go in to see Grandpa, you need to use a quiet voice,” my mom said. “And he might not remember who you are.”

“I know,” I answered.

At six years old, I understood that my grandpa’s mind was sick. That he forgot things. Got upset. That he sometimes acted like a little boy. That we could play cars together. Sometimes I had to buckle his seat belt. And I’d been told that he wouldn’t get better.

I knew that it was a sad thing. That the adults around me were upset. I knew because the last time my grandpa went to church, he couldn’t remember how to take communion and that made my Auntie Olga cry. I couldn’t remember seeing older people cry and I wanted to look at Auntie Olga. I wanted to touch her hand or hug her. But my mom put her arm around me. Made it clear that I wasn’t to stare.

“She’s sad because Grandpa is her brother,” my mom whispered.

Yes. I could understand. And, so, it made me sad, too.

The hallway in the hospital was very long and very bright. I knew that I shouldn’t run or smile or laugh. I think my brother and sisters knew, too. Being the youngest, I usually took my cues from the three of them. Sometimes I still do.

I have very few memories of my parents speaking to one another. It seems to be a strange gap to have. But I do remember them speaking to one another in the hallway. My dad came out of a room and whispered to my mom. But I could hear him.

“They’ll let the kids in. But just for a little while,” he whispered.

The next thing I remember is being in a room. The smell and the lights and the way my grandpa looked made my head hurt. He sat. Looked weak. Wore hospital clothes. He was confused.

For the first time in my life, I was sad about all of it. Truly sad. Not because someone else cried. Or because my parents told me that it was sad. My heart grieved because I was losing my grandpa.

We stayed for only a few minutes. I do not remember much of the visit. Only that my dad put a blanket across his dad’s legs. And that my grandpa smiled a few times. His eyes used to crinkle in the corners when he smiled. Such a kind smile. Even as an adult, nearly thirty years later, the memory of his smiling blue eyes makes me homesick.

The four of us kids lined up to give him hugs. To say good-bye. Ginger. Sam. Betsy. Susie. We lined up. The oldest was first. The youngest was last. Like the von Trapp children sans lederhosen.

“So long. Farewell. Alveterzane. Adieu.”

My siblings hugged him. Kissed him. I could tell by looking at him that his cheek would feel rough against my lips.

I stepped toward him. Put my little arms around his neck. So afraid of hurting him. What a strange thought that a little girl could hurt an old man. But I feared it.

He kissed my face.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Five kisses. I giggled. His eyes crinkled with a smile.

He was still there. A little of him, at least.

“I kissed you five times because I forgot how to count,” he said.

I giggled again.

We walked down that hallway again. The Capitol shrinking as we walked toward it.

I’m writing today as a part of the Breathe Christian Writers Conference blog tour. There is still time to register for the Breathe Conference. You won’t regret it! Click HERE to register.

I have written for free most of my career. Newsletter articles. Church dramas. Blog stories. All for free.

I’ve only gotten paid one time. $500 for a play that took over 6 months to write.

So, really, if my career has lasted 10 years, working part time, I’ve put in 10,400 hours of writing (and that’s a vast underestimate). That means I’ve made less than 5 cents an hour over the course of my career.

Wow. Talk about a lucrative lifestyle.

And yet, last year, someone implied that my decision to devote myself to writing was selfish.

Ouch.

Not long after, I attended the Breathe Conference. Over the two days of the conference, I heard that being a writer is a holy calling when we write for the glory of God. That we draw our inspiration from the Holy Spirit. That writing is a selfless, beautiful act of worship. An offering of praise, thanksgiving, lamentation, supplication.

The words of the presenters served as a reminder; writing is my calling. It is the way in which God uses me to further His kingdom.

I learned that God wants me to write.

And that when I do something for Him and for His glory then it doesn’t matter if I make 5 cents or if others think I’m selfish.

Holy callings are often misunderstood.

But, holy callings are joyful things.

My calling is to be a writer.

Glory to God.

Last Wednesday, I left West Michigan for a trip to Chicago to attend the Story conference.

I got my hair cut. Picked out the coolest clothes I could find (my nearly 6 year old helped me). Got a few amazing ladies to help with my kiddos (thanks to Betsy and my Mom). Waited for my ride to pick me up.

I attended the conference with a few of the coolest of the cool. Amelia Rhodes (author of “Isn’t it Time for a Coffee Break? Doing Life Together in an All About Me Kind of World“…pre-order on Amazon!!! Do it!). Kedron Rhodes (designer, snappy dresser, and one talented photographer…he did my head shots). Kim Gottschild (writer and brand new editor in chief of Burnside Writers Collective…check out her Cupcake Countenance HERE). Creagon and Joy Muldoon (newly-wed missionaries who fight human trafficking in exciting and creative ways…I was beyond honored to hang out with these two. Support them financially by clicking on their names…plug, plug).

Now, the best way I can think to communicate this experience is to break it down as much as possible. So. Let’s start at the very beginning…

Day 1 We arrive in Chicago

If you’ve never had the opportunity to visit Chicago…well…friends, get thou to Chi-town (sorry, bad Hamlet joke…you have to forgive me, I’m running on fumes). I get excited whenever I see the Sears Tower come into view (I know…it’s called something else now. But I’m an old lady and can’t seem to let go of things like that). Really, all we did the first night was check into the hotel. But it was exciting nonetheless.

Day 2 Meeting up with “The Creative Class”

We arrived at the church where the conference was held. We were greeted by a lederhosen clad accordion player. It was…ahem…interesting. We got coffee (fairly traded even) and found some seats. And then the creativity flowed.

Sleeping At Last opened the conference with a mini concert. If you’re a huge Twilight fan, you’ll recognize one of their songs. I, on the other hand, was very impressed by the lyrics…and tried to block out the fact that the word “Twilight” was even mentioned.

Bob Goff  was next. You might know his name from Donald Miller’s writings. Bob spoke with wisdom about living, really living. With hard hitting ideas like “Our picture is already in God’s wallet” (so stop working to make Him love us, just live like He already does), “We’ve got to stop living symbolic lives” (and live actively and with joy), and “Stop living life like it’s a business trip”, Bob convicted me. He encouraged us to use the creativity that God has given us. To live in creative ways to do good in the world. Bob is a storyteller. I recommend looking him up on YouTube. You will love hearing the man speak. If ever you need a pep-talk, Bob is your guy.

Breakaway Session 1: Inciting Incidents the book was recently released. It shares the stories of 6 contributors who faced disappointment and turning points in their lives. 4 of the contributors sat on a panel for the conference to share a bit of their process. We sat on the floor, ate grapes, and listened. Perhaps the story that moved me the most was from David Hickman who lives with mild Tourettes Syndrome and his years struggling to maintain a false self to compensate. The session, as a whole, caused me to reflect upon the incidents in my life that have formed me.

the Soil & the Sun played us back into a main session. The music was intense. I truly enjoyed them.

In the program, Isaac Rentz ‘s head shot looked like a sleek, thirty-something. Honestly, I thought something was wrong when a hip-hop looking kid walked up on the stage. He talked about his (relatively) young directing career. He makes music videos. At first, he was known for work like this…

But then, without knowing he was capable of such art, he made this video (nominated for a Video Music Award…and this has now become the theme video/song for my current novel in progress)…

Isaac also discussed the importance of artists letting go of the rules that can keep us from doing the work that God truly inspires. Even if those rules are made up by the Christian industry that we are trying to fit into. Create what God inspires. Forget the pigeon holes that humans create.

Surprisingly, the missionary-raised, Beastie Boy looking kid who lives in L.A. and crafts music videos impacted me more than any other speaker at the conference.

Lunch  Met independent author Brandon Clements in line at a food truck. Ate deep dish pizza. Got a little bit hit on by a very young guy (he told me my eyes were purple…which confused me…I told him that my hair was mostly gray and that I had a husband and kids at home….which sent him running. And, yes, this is significant. I don’t get hit on often. It was…ahem…awkward).

Mason Jar Music presented a project of playing folksy music in old spaces with great, full arrangements. These guys are smart and talented. Worth checking out. However, I believe that the two guys who spoke (who were EARLY twenties) stole sweaters from my Dad’s 1979 closet. Can someone please explain this to me?

Rachel Held Evans (who I met earlier in the restroom) spoke about her book “A Year of Biblical Womanhood” (releasing October 30). Most noteworthy about her talk was the focus on becoming women of valor and not using Proverbs 31 as a blueprint or bullet point. Rather, becoming women of valor with God’s strength and for His glory, using Proverbs 31 as a love poem that encourages and spurs us onward.

Vertical Church Band led us in some worship.

Then…gasp…Anne Lamott took the stage. She is the author of “Traveling Mercies”, “Bird by Bird”, among many others. Anne is as quirky in real life as I expected. She is also full of experience in the writing life. Things I learned; steal pens, have paper on you at all times, share, be kind, ask for help, ask GOD for help, thank God when He helps, you don’t have time to worry about how big your butt is…live.

Day done, my super cool friends and I took off for dinner. THAT, my friends is a story for another day.

Day 3

All Sons and Daughters helped us start the day with worship. Micah Bournes performed some spoken word poetry (check out this one entitled “Who Broke Africa“).

Makoto Fujimura is an artist, writer, and all around kind man. I met him the hallway on Thursday. Instead of acting like a crazy person, I just let Kim speak. It is always best if I remember to keep it calm. Makoto spoke to us from Matthew 13. The way he wove the parable of the Sower and the Seed into the life of an artist who desires to glorify God…well, friends…you had to be there. But, the idea is this, the parable isn’t about the seed. It isn’t about the soil. No. The parable is about Jesus. And we, we are the receiver of His seeds. We have only to use what we have to glorify Him. Not out of utility or function. But out of art. Out of praise to Him. (sigh) I wish I could have bottled his words.

Kyle Idleman is a minister at Southeast Christian Church in Kentucky. He is the author of “Not a Fan”, a book about being an authentic follower of Christ. Kyle spoke about not allowing our creativity to become an idol. About how all that we do must point to Jesus, not distract from him. Art does not serve for its own purpose, but to glorify Christ.

Lunch involved a 1.3 mile walk, fish and chips, a grumpy lady, and RAIN! Again. This is a story for another day.

And, no, I was not the grumpy lady.

Phil Vischer passed us on the sidewalk during the lunch break. He said, “Hi, there”. I almost fell over. Bob the Tomato had just said “hi” to me. My kids, no doubt, would be freaked out by that (which, sadly, they were not…ah well). Phil spoke about how his “big thing” (ie. Veggie Tales) had cost him everything. He discussed how he worked on his own, trying to earn God’s love. But, really, he already had it. How now he works day to day, trying to do what God gives him for that 24 hour time. No 20 year plan (“that’s none of my business”). No big one big thing. No Big Hairy Audacious Goal (or B-HAG). He doesn’t want to limit God with his own goals and ideas.

The conference ended with Mocktails (yup…fake drinks), hugs, pictures, and a refreshed creativity.

A renewed purpose. An eager mind.

And gratitude. More than ever, I am thankful for the artsy-fartsy mind that God chose to give me.

One of my mentors over at Novel Matters has done something brave. She, after success in the traditional publishing world, has struck out on her own to self publish a novel.

That’s brave? you may ask.

Um. Yes. Totally.

And Sharon K. Souza  has done it. Not only has she written a book and put it out there. No. She created a story, pulled me in, showed me myself, and gave me a hug of redemption.

Am I being melodramatic?

No. This book truly served as a mirror to me.

“Unraveled” is a gorgeous book. Instantly drawing me in, I felt as if I were in the room, having tea with the characters. I savored this book, wanting to remain with the characters as long as I could. And, all at once, I found I couldn’t read fast enough to find out what would happen to them.

Sharon writes out of mercy. I’m certain of that. About a year ago, I read another of her books (“Every Good and Perfect Gift“…hurry, there are only 3 left on Amazon). She wrote in that book about infertility, friendship, early onset Alzheimer’s Disease. The book was full of mercy. In “Unraveled”, Sharon wrote about doubt, the  mission field, human trafficking, suicide. She wrote with such compassion. Understanding. Mercy.

And mercy is one thing that the Lord requires us to love. (Micah 6:8)

Also, I love that this novel isn’t the squeaky clean, formulaic model of a novel. Rather, it is what Christian fiction should be. Convicting. Loving. Edifying. Glorifying to God.

A mirror to show us who we are. Even if that reflects the warts along with the beauty.

And, friends, I would make an appeal to you. Vote with your dollars.

No. This isn’t about the president (this is a politics free zone).

This is about creating a demand for better books. We complain that the great books don’t get the recognition they deserve. The way to fix it is to buy those great books. Tell our friends to buy them. Ask local book sellers to carry them on their shelves. “Unraveled” is a book that deserves to be read.

I want to tell you about my big sister. Her name is Ginger. And she is wonderful.

Family legend has it that when my mom was pregnant for Ginger, all she could keep down was Ginger Ale (or Vernors if you’re a Michigander). Thus, the name Ginger.

Family legend also has it that my mom was working on her own spice rack. My brother, Sam, disrupted that by not being a “Pepper”. (I’m not actually sure if that’s completely true…but it sure is funny)

My sister Ginger once told me that my mom wasn’t my real mom. My sister told me that, in fact, she was my true mother. But, being only 6 when I was born, she couldn’t have possibly raised me. So, she gave me to her mom, who was really my grandma. I believed her. And I cried.

Turns out, Ginger likes to mess with me.

This is further evidenced in the way Ginger got me to sit on her lap.

“Come here and sit on my lap,” she’d say, arms stretched out to me.

“No,” I would answer. Yes. Possibly in a very bratty tone.

SMACK! (That was the sound of Ginger hitting me)

WHAAAAAAA! (That was the sound of me crying. Yes. In that same very bratty tone)

“Oh, Honey,” Ginger would cry. “Come here and let me give you a hug.”

And, yes. I’d go to her for comfort.

It worked every single time.

But, lest you think I’m roasting this dear sister of mine, I do have a sweet story to share. This was told to me by my buddy Tim.

When Ginger was in her final year at college, she did some sort of internship at the high school I attended. I got to see her every once in awhile.

One day, Tim asked how I was.

Ginger tilted her head to one side and said, “Beautiful.”

She is a sweetie.

My sister Ginger is also one of the strongest women I know.

Well, yes. She can kick my booty even though she is a few inches shorter than I am. But that isn’t exactly the kind of strength I’m talking about.

My sister went back to school while she worked full time, raised two extremely handsome boys (don’t tell them I said that, they’ll never talk to me again if they know!), attended those extremely handsome boys’ kazillion sporting events, and…and…so much more! She not only received a degree that enabled her to become a respiratory therapist, she did so with really well earned grades.

And now, she literally saves lives.

I write about people like her.

Well, I am right now, huh?

Ginger is

Determined

Compassionate

Spunky

Loving

Gorgeous

Funny

Creative

Talented

Intelligent

Loyal.

And, on this day I celebrate her birthday. She is now an age that I will not mention because I fear for my very life (just kidding…or am I?).

You know, a few years ago I had a new appreciation for birthdays. They are the days that we stop and acknowledge someone’s birth. Yup. That’s a fact. But why all the cake and balloons and over the hill jokes?

Well, there is a good reason.

We celebrate because we love the person. Because we are glad that, however many years before, that person became alive. And we are glad that they are alive. And that they are in our lives. We find joy in this life because that person is in it. And so we celebrate.

Today, September 18, I find joy in this life because my sister Ginger is in it.

Happy Birthday, Ginger. I love you.

(And happy birthday to my Uncle Tom, too.)

On Monday, I wrote about a man who talked to someone only he could see.

Last night, as I sat at the dinner table, I saw something that only I could see.

A curved, squiggled line in my vision. At first it looked the remnants of too-bright of light that hit my eye. You know the kind that leaves an impression of glow in your eyes for a few minutes. That’s how it started. And I thought nothing of it. That is, until the squiggle flashed like a neon sign. Red. Yellow. Green. Blue. The squiggle widened. The flashing included geometric shapes within.

I looked at my daughter’s face, only seeing half of it.

My peripheral vision ceased to work.

What was to follow would be nothing less than a skull crushing migraine. It didn’t hurt yet. But I knew that the pain was coming.

I took migraine pills (really, just glorified ibuprofen with caffeine in it) and ate some semi-sweet chocolate chips (serves to curb the blind spot). Then, off to bed I went.

Within moments, I could see again. Just in time for the pain. Just in time for the me to will myself to sleep through the worst of it.

The strange thing, though, is how absolutely beautiful it all begins with the flashing lights. My daughter asked if it was like fireworks in my head. A little. Just a little. When these flashing blind spots come, they are usually like the fuzz of an out of service television channel. But every once in awhile, they come as a beautiful, growing and glowing shape. Full of color and movement. Almost entertaining.

A few weeks ago I watched a TED Talk by a neurologist who discussed the hallucinations that come with different forms of blindness. Last year, I read a book by the lovely Patti Hill (called “Seeing Things”. BUY it HERE ) about a woman who hallucinates due to macular degeneration. Both the neurologist and Patti’s character describe the hallucinations as intriguing. Perhaps even enjoyable.

I can understand how that can be.

At least until the hallucinations became terrifying. But, I suspect, that’s a different thing altogether.

I really have no deep philosophical platform here. I don’t even have anything intelligent to say. I’m afraid that I’ve struggled to even write this much (my head still hurts badly).

I guess just this; sometimes beauty and pain and loss join together.  Sometimes they come in one bundled package. We just need to learn how to see them.