Peach Pits, Magic Acts, and What Will Thrill You

I saw them this week, all lined up just waiting. Five dried peach pits, riddled with crevices and cracks, laying flat on the soil awash in potential and wonder.

Photo: Christopher Bowns, Creative Commons cc license

Daniel puts them there, this sweet little towheaded blonde six and a half year old. Since learning of gardening and plants, he now saves the seeds from any fruit he loves and plants them in my houseplants. Five dried peach pits line the surface of my indoor banana plant now.

His wonder and magic float even farther, though.

My dad was here a few weeks ago, using slight-of-hand to vanish nickels in an old fashioned linen handkerchief and magically pound spice jars through my dining room table. Daniel was entranced and reached his own hands up to test behind his ears and behind Grandpa's ears too for the missing coins. And my heart caught with delight to see my son's wonder and belief. Belief that anything was possible, and that coins could indeed materialize from behind ears and spice jars from within tables.

I slipped away this morning, just me and my smooth-rolling gel pen and other writing materials, intent on this summer's writing project. In a local Caribou Coffee, I laid out my pens and notebooks, sipped hot fresh coffee, and started scratching ink across page.

Photo: Frederik Rubensson, Creative Commons cc license

I have been reading dozens of books on writing and am convinced that the process and discipline of learning from others, of showing up to do the work, and of continued learning and revising can bring magical results. And so this morning at a sunny coffee-shop table, I warmed up, stared off into space for a while, marshaling my thoughts; and then, with grace-filled expectations for myself, I scribbled word after word, lining them up. Words, sentences, and scrawled near-unintelligible pages coiled side by side in spiral binding. My hand cramped, and I stopped for a chocolate croissant before jumping into another timed session of writing.

I believe in wonder. I believe in lining up the creviced peach pits, lining up for work with the tools ready, and jumping in. I don't know what passions or hobbies or goals you have waiting for you, but I understand the demands, the delays, the distractions.

You can do this. Show up. Do the work. And the wonder and magic will float through.

Line by line, awash in excitement; peach pit by creviced peach pit.

If You're Waiting & Wondering Where the Excitement Is

Photo: Ted McGrath, Creative Commons, cc license

Sliced onions sting my eyes, and a salty scent of "pork eggroll in a bowl" rests heavy in the kitchen. Flecks of shredded carrot scatter my youngest's plate and the table where he sat. Lego noises and boy sounds echo in the living room.

Spring in Minnesota looks like red-winged blackbirds and rust-colored robins swooping in to join the black-capped chickadees and blue jays at the feeders. Snow's sandy residue leaves grass lawns matted and pebbly, but more and more green strands of slender grass slip through. The air is fresh, warmer, and Midwesterners bounce expectantly out of doors, trailing dog leashes, running gear, and even the occasional shorts and sandals in defiant glee and shivers.

I've been reading Holley Gerth's book, You Were Made for a God-Sized Dream: Opening the Door to all God Has For You, and just received Jeff Goins' hot-off-the-press book, The Art of Work: A Proven Path to Discovering What You Were Meant to Do. Pencil in hand, I've been underlining Gerth's book and making plans for this summer, determined to zealously protect disciplined chunks of the day to work on this new book project when my school duties are done.

And throughout this week a Bible verse has grabbed me in a way I've never seen before. I was familiar with the first sentence in that paragraph and the next sentence there too, but had never put them together. In Second Timothy 1:6-7, I read For this reason I remind you to fan into flame the gift of God which is in you... and the next sentence adds a curious twist, For the Spirit God gave us does not make us timid, but gives us power, love, and self-discipline. 

There are topics and things that excite you, I'm sure of it. If we could grab hot coffee and sit around my scuffed, map-laminated cherry-wood kitchen table to talk, I know that we would get to them. Those topics that make your eyes shine and flash, and your voice raise in pitch excitedly; those passions, dreams, and favorite hobbies that make you come alive. It might be an innovative idea you have for work, or your plans for a summer garden, your secret dream to adopt, your love for decorating on a budget, or your love of writing and learning. And I know that God has shaped you uniquely. Anything that brings him glory and makes you come alive is something he carved deep inside of you. He invites you to use that, to dream excitedly about those possibilities, and to step out obediently into using those gifts, talents, and passions for him.

Whatever it is, God invites you to fan into flame the gift of God which is in you. And, knowing our many hindrances, he answers the very next words from our mouths: For the Spirit God gave us does not make us timid, but gives us power, love, and self-discipline.

For me today, this means to set a plan to start writing three-five days a week this summer (if not now), and it means I need to go talk to one of my teens and his mom who are hurting.

For you today? What's he telling you? Nothing else will bring such joy than stepping into whatever he has next for you. And I'd love to cheer you on from the side.

What Captain America and Superman Knew But We're Still Learning

Right after a tall red-faced Star Wars Darth Maul glowered down at me and growled, I jumped, and you would have too, to see his teeth bared at such close range.

Photo Credit: The Conmunity, Creative Commons, cc license

In a crowded comic book convention this weekend, my daughter and I passed countless Supermen, Captain America's, Doctor Who characters, and Star Trek klingons. Children and grownups sported long red capes, strode confidently in calf-high boots, and twirled plastic battle axes while shopping for comic book paraphernalia.

While I flipped over books to check printing companies and asked authors about their publishing journeys, my daughter was the real reason we were here. With a shy confidence, she turned pages in artists' portfolios, asking them questions on art techniques and leaping at the chance to show them her own sketches.

"I brought them with," she replied quickly when an anime artist suggested she show her work to people in the industry. "Can I show you?" Pulling off her blue backpack, she pulled out a manilla folder with her favorite sketches inside. She stood silent as two different artists flipped carefully through her work, pausing at some pieces to comment and linger.

For hours afterward, she skipped excitedly from the feedback they gave and from the intoxication of being surrounded by artists who love to draw and capture art in pens, pencil, and paints.

"I need to stop and draw," she declared at one point partway through the conference. "This just inspires me, and I need to draw." We scrounged up two chairs at the back of a loud panel room where contestants in costumes waited for their turn at the microphone. Morgan balanced her art pad on her lap, already tracing orbs onto the page, early starts of human anatomy.

And you have this too. It may not be with pencils and Japanese anime forms, but there is something you do that brings you such joy that you hunger for it. Siphon you away from it for long enough and it compels you to scavenge a place and a time to dive in.

What is it that calls to you? What hobby, talent, skill, or passion rumbles quietly underneath as you work your jobs, make supper, and drive from errand to errand? What do you look forward to today and this week?

Beware, my friend, because the television will call, and the tiredness seeps in, and it is always too easy to mutter slowly, "I'll do it tomorrow."

Don't put it off. Don't listen to the excuses, to the tired voice lulling you to easy comforts. Start now. Warm up your favorite drink, pull up your chair, and begin.

Because most likely, that thing that calls you, excites you, and is lingering silently there beneath the surface is something amazing, given to you by the Master Artist himself. Don't put it off, don't sink into the couch with another rerun episode. Pull out the paints, or the sketch pad, or your dremel tools. Click on that latest article or book piece you've started, and begin. It hums in you, pulling you.

And we are eager to see it. Even better, your Artist God is watching, smiling, and flipping through your portfolio.

(Linking with Ann in thanks. For those from Living Faith Church, stopping by for the immediate gratification post, please find that here. Thanks. All are welcome!)

You Are Sooo Close

Photo Credit: Benson Kua, Creative Commons, cc license

A lovely foreign-accented dark-haired woman with pale complexion and red lipstick clips words with a heavy tongue beside me, while an American businessman converses with her. They mention churches, the Basilica, nieces dancing in Hopkins, and a local pontoon party.

I've finished my Sunday School lesson outline and refilled my coffee. It scalds my tongue, and I spill two drops of golden tan onto my page.

I wonder about this morning's blogpost I need to write and stretch my legs that, miraculously, are not as sore as they could be after yesterday's run. Successfully getting back into jogging, I ran one and a half miles without stopping Friday afternoon. Saturday and Sunday, I groaned and clutched my legs in pain but proud accomplishment sustained me.

Yesterday (Monday) I forced myself to run again, knowing the second time is always the hardest. Making yourself set out down that marked path when the memory of agonizing weariness is so fresh and your legs are still sore from the last run is the hardest time to run. No endorphins ever set in, and my run looked more like a limping pitiful jog, but I did it. My husband's cell phone I was using as my music player had a battery line in the red, warning of only ten percent life left. I willed and prayed it to last to my mile and a half marker, a blue house that seemed absurdly far away.

Cars passed me going north and south, and far-off hollow hammer falls echoed across the valley. Mountains of black dirt behind an orange plastic construction fence hinted at future retail areas, and a blue porta-potty boasted "Fresh Air" across its walls. I panted and willed myself to keep going.

Green-glinting mallard duck and his demure brown mate floated on a vast rain pond, mirroring a massive blue sky. I wheezed and tried to train my arms to circle in tight arcs and not flail wildly.

The blue house loomed far out of sight and I felt my resolve flagging. Breathe. Don't stop. Breathe. Don't stop. Breathe. At least to the next driveway, at least to the next driveway. And the words became a mantra in and out of my double-rhythmed breathing. Don't stop. To the next driveway. 

Intersection lights blinked far down the road and I knew the blue house should be appearing soon.

You're so close now, Jen. Don't stop. Breathe, don't stop. Breathe, don't stop. Breathe. My legs screamed, my breathing was labored, and my arms flailed unchecked, but the blue house appeared. The driveway line was so close. I pounded step in front of step on the asphalt stubbornly, until the line came. At the obscure chosen mark, I was spent and limp, spinning a triumphant 180 degrees. Everything in me grabbed air and rejoiced at not running, as I walked weakly back down the path. Gasping, wheezing, I sucked air and tried not to collapse in view of passing cars. Step, step, breathe. 

Smile. Accomplished.

My chest and breathing slowed, the valley extended wide, expansive under a blue May sky, and the spiritual and metaphorical implications hit me.

Whatever you're persevering towards (raising kids, a book contract, marriage growth, an art piece, sin victories), keep going. You're so close. Don't stop. Breathe. Don't stop. Breathe. You are so close...


(Linking too with gentle Ann in thanks.)

Walls, Writing,and What You were Made For

It's the original walls. This home, built thirteen years ago by Russian hands. This home in which we're the third owners, third occupants. (Photos above not of my home. See credits below)

Foreclosed and bank-owned when we found it, knee high in thistles and clover, we know very little about this house's past owners. Intriguing clues surface at unexpected moments: the splatter of dusty rice pellets in crevices behind the stove and a solitary chopstick (giving us instant kinship with them-- us with our curries and African sauces, and at-least-weekly rice meals); mail addressed to Vietnamese or Thai names; and rumors of Russian families with lots of young men who liked bonfires under the moated stone tree.

A year into living here now, the house feels like home; the yard is brimming with rhubarb, flowers and produce; and lawn mower patterns trace square mazes of olive green grass clippings. Several walls have original paintwork still, though--a concession to time limits and energy. Sitting in Daniel's room this evening, I stare at the walls, seeing old staples high up in the wall from holding another family's posters.

Who lived here, I wonder? What was on these walls? Where did they put their bed, their dresser? Was it a child like our Lego-tinkling boy beside me, or someone else? Relatively clean, the walls still boast the plaster I swiped on some months ago to flatten and hide chips and dents on the surface. Original paintwork looks back at me, as I stare silently at the walls, picturing the clamoring sounds, stories, relationships, and lives of the two families here before us.

It feels surreal yet intimate, and I fall quiet. Plastic Legos shuffle and clank beside me, and stories  fill my mind.

I've been reading books on writing this month, and just turned the last page on a book tonight that leaves me eager to buy my own copy so I can mark it up with pencil underlinings and notes. (Two books are making their way to me already through warehouses and book fulfillment lists.) The authors speak of hard work, and daily determination to sit down at a desk and simply write. It recharges and inspires me, so I request a turn at the family computer, brew a pot of decaf coffee, and wrestle my five year old to bed. An hour later, the keyboard is mine, the coffee is just slightly scalded, and silence descends on my dimly-lit dining room. Black computer keys clatter inside as semi trucks rev by outside, and a small boy drifts off to sleep.

I don't know about you. I don't know what passions and skills God has grown deep inside of you, but for me, words --both spoken and written-- are music to me. Others' words weave me in, pull me along, slip me away, and inspire me. And mine? They form, haltingly, awkwardly, but unceasingly and I desire to have them reflect truth, reflect Him, and be for his glory.

So, for you tonight, my friend? Be encouraged. God has placed skills, passions, and dreams inside you, on purpose. He crafted and created you. Don't doubt it. Don't give up, and DO "fan into flame" the gifts he put inside you. You were made to bring glory to him. Practice your art. Persist at and hone that skill. Then run to hang it on his huge, cosmic fridge. "Abba, Daddy, look what I made for you!" in childlike naivety and wonder.

Linking with Ann tonight whose writing and love for her Abba make me thankful too. 

What are your passions or art? How are you honing it this week? 

 Photo credit #1 and photo credit #2. "Finestre Sulla Valle" 1969 by Contini Emilio.