A Final Note to my Writer's Wellspring Friends

My dear friends,

I want to thank you for walking with me through the various stages of our writing lives together these past couple of years. When I wrote my first blog post for the Writer’s Wellspring in March 2011 I had no idea how many people would visit and connect with me as a result.

While I had hoped I would be posting more often here this year. That simply has not been the case. But on the bright side, I have been given the opportunity to spend my mornings working as an aid to elementary-age children who need a little extra help with reading and writing. I’m also studying for my Chiropractic Assistant license and have been hired part time at a local clinic. On top of that, it is my hope to return to Uganda at some point again this year.

Needless to say, my writing time has become very limited. As I am unsure of how often I’d be able to post, I’ve made the difficult decision to put the Writer’s Wellspring on an indefinite hiatus. I will, however, leave the blog up for those who still wish to look back on previous posting.

For those interested in keeping tabs on what’s happening in my life writing-wise or otherwise, you can connect with me via Twitter or Facebook.

Thank you again for your support the past two years. This has been an incredible learning experience for me, and I look forward to whatever new lessons are in store for me in the days ahead.

Until we meet again, I wish you all the best in your writing and in your personal lives. God bless!

Jen

A Day to Pay Homage to the Makers of our Coffee

A little love (and a lot of extra chocolate) go a long way in making any day better.
©2013 JELindsay

This past week I was hit with (what I’d like to think is) a marvelous idea. Random idea generation isn’t all that uncommon for me. I ask myself “What If?” all the time. But this time my “What If” is a little bit different. And it was spurred on by a cup of coffee.

As writers, one of the things we tend to talk about a lot is coffee. 

We need it to function, to awaken our muse. We drink it in the morning. We drink it in the afternoon. We drink it far too late at night and then wonder why we can’t sleep. (Of course we blame a new astounding idea for that!)

But there is one thing we don’t tweet about all that often. We don’t tweet about the people who go the extra mile when they brew our precious elixir of life. Our baristas.

Now it’s possible you stand in as your own barista and keep that coffee pot full yourself, but I’m a well-known face at more than one place. My favorite haunt is Rogue Roasters in Grants Pass. It’s a small family-owned shop that roasts its own beans right in the store and showcases a new local artist on the first Friday of each month.

It’s here that the baristas know me well enough they’ll come across the room to give me a bear hug when I first walk in. It’s here that I’m teased about my predictability in what I order every Tuesday afternoon. And it’s here that a special drink was invented for me on a day I couldn’t figure out what I wanted because I was far too frazzled by the challenges life presented me with that particular day.

My baristas make me smile. They make me laugh. And they inspire me each time I see them. As often as I thank them, I feel like there’s something more I can do to express my appreciation for the work they do. 

So today I’d like to propose a new holiday: Barista Appreciation Day.

On Friday, April 5th, I intend to make an extra effort to thank those who get up extremely early or stay up extremely late to make sure I’m alert throughout my day. I’d like to invite my fellow coffee connoisseurs to do the same. Whether it be a card, a flower, or maybe a little extra tip, do something to honor, appreciate, and encourage those who remain cheerful in what can be a very demanding and sometimes thankless job.

It’s because of people like baristas that our lives are a little better each day, and for that I am incredibly thankful.  

A New Way to Track Your Growth as a Writer

It doesn't matter if you wrote today or not. You are a writer.
It's time to start living like one.
 ©2013 JELindsay

You just glanced at your calendar and realized once again that your resolution to write 2,000 words a day has turned into praying you can reach 2,000 words this month. Who knew life could be so inconsiderate of your writing time?

Or perhaps, like me, you get so fixated on reaching a certain number that the words stop coming. The daily quota that was intended to encourage you to reach a goal has now become a 20-pound stone in the stomach instead.

Numbers, letters, and I have never mixed well (just ask my old algebra teacher), so this year I decided on a different approach to track my progress. I call it, “The Writer’s File.”

At the end of each day, I open up the Top Secret Document on my laptop. I type in the date and add an entry that looks similar to this:

March 2, 2013 — Today, I am a writer. I developed character sketches for two of my secondary characters who will ultimately play larger roles in my protagonist’s life, and discovered what they have to do with each other. I also posted a review of Jim’s newest book. Today, I fulfilled my purpose as a writer. Tomorrow I will do the same.

No matter how I spent my day (even the days I chose not to write), each entry begins and ends with the exact same words, and each entry is limited to 3 or 4 sentences. This serves three purposes:

1) The first sentence affirms that I am a writer now, not that I will be a writer someday. It encourages me to keep at it even when I don’t want to.

2) The short entries give me a concise record (sans emotions) of daily accomplishments and ideas. This gives me something more tangible to look back at on days when I’m stuck or I feel like a failure.

3) The last sentence puts my mind to rest when it’s time to sleep. It’s a reminder that, as hard as I try, there will always be something left undone. I did my best today and tomorrow (Lord willing) I’ll have the opportunity to do so again.

So if the words aren’t adding up for you this year, it’s not too late to try a new approach. However you choose to track your progress just remember one thing: You are a writer. Get out there and fulfill your purpose!

How writers put personal feelings to work

As writers we have the option of using our daily,
often chaotic, emotional range to our advantage.
Image courtesy of SXC.hu ©2005 je1196.

How is your writing going this week? Is your current project still exciting, or is it causing you intense anguish? Is the work moving forward, or have found yourself stumped and at standstill?

How are you doing this week? Are you proudly declaring yourself a writer or do you secretly fear being outed as a "fraud" because you haven't had a moment to devote to the craft?

As writers, it's common to feel an entire range of emotions regarding our writing and ourselves — sometimes several times in a single hour! But that emotional roller coaster doesn't have to be a curse. In fact, it can be a blessing.

Human feelings are complex, but the emotions we experience are universal. That's what makes the characters we love so much so relatable.

Feeling the arm-hair-raising thrill of anticipation? I'm sure there's a chapter in your book where one or more of your characters feels the same way. Take that excitement and work it into a scene.

Are you being pulled down into the darkness by the invisible weight of fear? One or more of your characters should feel that often. Time to tap into that boiling stomach acid and pour it out onto the page.

Uncertainty? Concern? Happiness? Heartache? Whatever describes your current state of mind, put it to use. Don't think about how pretty the words sound, don't worry about form or grammar. Just get it out and set those words aside in a special file for later. That way you don't have to wrack your brain trying to convey feelings that may be contrary to your own later on.

Franz Kafka once said, "Don't bend; don't water it down; don't try to make it logical; don't edit your soul according to the fashion. Rather follow your obsessions mercilessly." 

He may have been speaking about writing in general, but the same is true of conveying emotions. We were created to feel intently, so let your characters (and your readers) feel what they are intended to feel. After all, the best stories are the ones in which we as readers believe that whatever is at stake for the characters is going to affect our personal lives as well.

By the way, I honestly do wonder...how are you doing this week? Feel free to share in the comments below.

Out with the Monday Panic and in with a week of Peace of Mind

Photo Courtesy of sxc.com ©2009 O_m.

"The more we are prodded the lazier we get, and the less capable of the effort of will which should carry us to, and nearly carry us through, our tasks." — Charlotte Mason {Vol. 3, p. 39-40}


It's Monday, which means my mind is full of all the tasks I have to accomplish this week as well as a nagging reminder of all I failed to finish last week. In many ways, Mondays are the hardest to get started because it seems that there is just too much to do in too short of time.

In fact, "The List" was in the forefront of my mind all morning as I was trying to get through my early morning routine. As usual I found myself distracted and then chastising myself for my lack of work effort. I don't have a single person telling me what I have to do right now — except for me — and I've discovered the more I try to motivate myself the more frustrated I've become of late. 

Rather than being productive, every glance at the clock reminds me just how much time I've wasted in a pointless internal struggle.

This is a serious problem.

So it was a blessing to see Charlotte Mason's quote posted on my mother's Facebook page this morning. For those not familiar with this incredible woman, she was a champion for improving the education of British children in the late 19th through early 20th century. She is also a hero to many homeschoolers. 

Charlotte was also my mother's inspiration as she raised us. Much of my love of learning stems from what my mother learned through Charlotte's methods. In seeing the above quote, I was reminded of the most important lesson I learned at my mother's feet: 

Focus on one thing at a time. Give it your full attention and when the prescribed time is up move on to the next task. Do not worry about what came before and what comes after. Just focus on what you need to do in this particular moment.

As soon as I read Charlotte's quote it seemed as if a huge weight came off my shoulders. It's so easy to forget that I don't have to tackle an entire mountain in one go. The work is done a shovelful at a time. With each shovel emptied, I'm one step closer to finishing my work.

I don't know what your week looks like. Perhaps you're far better organized than I am and have a system in place that works wonderfully for you. But if your Monday is starting out like mine with a sense of overwhelming doom, take heart in knowing you aren't facing your battle alone.

Mom always made me work in 15 minute increments when I was younger. It taught me to focus and it allowed me to move onto something else (even if it wasn't completely finished) about the time my attention started to wane. I learned later on it was an attention building exercise that also improved memory retention. (Which would explain why I've gone from remembering everything to forgetting what I was trying to say only moments ago.)

I figure if it worked then, it would work now. So instead of allowing my inner slave driver to goad me and make me feel worthless and lazy because I can't do everything at once, I'm going to tackle today — and the rest of this week — one moment at a time.

Happy Monday to you all, my friends! May this week bring you a sense of joy and accomplishment as well!

A Novel Approach to Short Story Writing

A short story is simply a novel in condensed form.

I’ve shared several times before that when I really started writing the only thing I wanted to do was publish novels. I wanted the big book on the shelf. In my mind there simply was nothing else to write other than non-fiction. And I was never going there.

Years have passed. I’ve never published that 300-page tome. But it hasn’t kept me from continuing to try. In the meantime, I’ve learned the novel isn’t the only way to go.

Wanting to be a novelist is pretty common among writers. There is a sense of mystery and adventure to it. We’re readers by nature and we want to be just like the writers we’ve grown up loving. We want to create a world people will never forget.

In our rush to publish it’s easy to forget that most of our heroes started out small, then worked their way up to something bigger. Others built their entire career around the short story. As a result this medium is often overlooked.

But that’s beginning to change in both the world of reading and writing.

The Weekend Short Story Challenge

In honor of such literary giants as Charles Dickens, Edgar Allan Poe, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Isaac Assimov, Philip K. Dick, Ray Bradbury, and so many, many more, I propose a challenge to any who read this post.

Let’s write (and complete) something small this weekend!

Like a novel, the story needs a beginning, a middle, and an end. Start with a hook. End with a punch. And pack in the tension. It can be something completely original, or you can tell a well-known story from a different angle. Just make it unique.

For those not familiar with short stories, here are a few options to choose from:

Short: 1,000 – 3,000 words

Flash: 1,000 words or less.

Micro: Less than 300 words.

Nano: Less than 100 words.

As an experiment, I chose a Nano Story similar to Hemmingway’s six-word story “For Sale.”

Wanted: Six-month puppy seeks loving home. Loves Tag and Hide & Seek. Well trained. Missing her little playmate.

It’s my first attempt at Nano fiction, and I plan to try my hand at another this weekend. Whether they’re ever published or not, I’ve come to realize short story writing will help me focus on what’s really important when I go back to my novel.

Want to join me in the challenge? Let me know in the comment section below. Not your thing, but know someone else who might? Please share a link!

Stoke the fire of imagination: What the Village Blacksmith teaches

Photo courtesy of stock.xchng. ©2006 Atroszko. 

Under a spreading Chestnut tree

  The village smithy stands;

The smith, a mighty man is he,

  With large and sinewy hands;

And the muscles in his brawny arms

  Are strong as iron bands.

“The Village Blacksmith” was my very first encounter with Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. I was in third grade and my class was memorizing a new poem every month for the year. Of all the poems we covered the only other two I remember are “The Dual” and “Keep a Poem inYour Pocket.”

The other poems were fun and easy to learn, but none of them stoked the fires of my imagination the way that village blacksmith did.

In eight, six-line stanzas we are given a vividly detailed story of love won and lost, of a life that continues on despite the grief, and of the lesson we can take away from one man’s example.

I’ve always wondered if there really was a spreading chestnut tree, if a smithy was nestled beneath its branches, and if inside there worked a dedicated yet gentle man. Was he a friend? Was he an adult in the place where Longfellow grew up? Or was he a stranger Longfellow noticed in passing and became as enthralled with as the children?

Or was the blacksmith just a story after all? A tale cobbled together from bits and pieces of life experiences.

I was reminded of this poem when a friend quoted from the last stanza a few days ago, and it’s caused me to ponder those words, the rhythm, and the purpose ever since.

As writers many of us dream of creating the next great novel. We pour hours into plot lines. We fill days hammering out character descriptions. And we spend weeks honing the description of our fictional world down to the last popping ember.

In the process it’s easy to forget what a story is: a snapshot of a specific moment that conveys the essence of humanity’s greatest joys and sorrows.

I learned a valuable lesson in re-reading my favorite childhood poem this past week: Anyone can create a world in 500 pages.

It takes a true artist to capture an entire life in 48 lines.

Are your current writing habits causing you to stumble?

As a little girl I loved watching figure skating. I loved how effortlessly the skater glided across the ice and pushed into a triple lutz or spiraled down and up in the Camel Spin. I loved the quick jumps to the beat of the music and rhythmic claps of the spectators. And if they fell, they bounced right back up and kept going. Nothing phased them. It looked like so much fun.

Some day, I remember thinking, I’m going to be just like Kristi Yamaguchi.

It wasn’t until high school that I finally got my first chance to step out onto the ice. I’d grown up rollerskating and figured I had the basic mechanics down. It was basically the same sport, right?

Not quite, I discovered. The instant my blades touched the ice my legs scissored outward and I fell. Hard. And I realized just how unforgiving the ice really is.

They make it look so easy, I thought of the other skaters passing me by as I clung to the wall and tried to walk on the ice. Now terrified, my eyes were glued to my toes and the moment I started to gain any sort of momentum I panicked and started wobbling uncontrollably until down I went onto my knees...again and again.

It took someone who knew what they were doing to come alongside me, coax me away from the perceived safety of the edge and into the smooth ice of the center where there were less pits and grooves.

It turned out the very thing I thought was keeping me safe and moving forward was actually causing me to stumble and fall.

With some gentle, yet firm encouragement I soon found my balance and was completing laps around the rink on my own.

Twelve years later my skating career is limited to an annual two-hour experience with a group of friends. Each time I step out I have to remind myself that skating isn’t easy but the worst thing I can do is worry about falling. The trick is balance. Keep your chin up, watch ahead of you, consider your surroundings, and just enjoy the moment.

“Easy reading is damn hard writing.”

I think the same is true of writing. After the initial excitement of becoming a writer wears off, once the first rejections start arriving in our mailboxes, it’s easy to become disillusioned.

We read incredible stories by writers who make it look so easy. We know we have something of value to share, but we discover the hard way that writing well requires a lot of dedication, patience, and work.

I think it’s time we let go of what we’re comfortable with as writers and explore new territory. 

It could very well be that the confines we’ve found safety in are precisely what has been holding us back. Now, this doesn’t mean we throw out all the rules and all that we’ve learned in the past. I mean it’s time we open ourselves up to branching out and in learning something new. If you write fiction, try your hand at non-fiction. Only write prose? Why not spend a month writing in stanzas?

Thankfully it’s easier than ever to find a bit of direction and encouragement from others who have been there before. Whether it’s through a great book on writing, a cherished mentor, or a friend who has a bit more experience, there are days we all need a firm yet gentle nudge to get us to let go of the wall, the crowds, and the most pitted ruts in writing rink to explore that scary open space where we’ll best have a chance to make our mark.

But first we have to be willing to accept the help.

I would never have learned how to skate had I insisted on doing it my own way. And I will never become the writer I know I want to be if I think I already know all I need to know and refuse to listen to the advice of others.

Easy reading may be damn hard writing, but it’s also worth the effort.

I’m sure Mr. Hawthorne would agree.

I am a Writer. Are you?

I am a writer.

Not an aspiring writer. Not a wanna-be-writer. Not a “Someday” writer.

I am a writer. Right here. Right now.

Why? Because after years of being told so by others who believed in me, I decided it was time I started believing it myself. I may not be able to hold a published book in hand. I may not have gone on any press junkets to promote my latest project. But I am a writer.

If you’re reading this post, chances are it’s because You are a Writer, too!

I became a writer at the age of five when I decided I was going to help my dad write the newsletter for the computer store he was running at the time. The pages consisted of the same up-and-down scribbles that cartoon characters have no trouble reading, in fact, it looked exactly like the story my cousin’s 5-year-old daughter read to me the other night. She’d written it herself and it was filled with all sorts of danger.

I started legibly writing down songs I knew, stories about my life (real and imagined), and poems when I entered second and third grade. In fourth grade I received first prize for a story I wrote for an Arbor Day Contest. It was my first and only blue ribbon growing up.

Looking back, I’ve always been a writer. I just had a faulty understanding of the what a writer is.

A writer is someone who writes. Not someone who is published and famous.

Some of the best writers of all time never found success in their lifetime. Consider Franz Kafka. His Metamorphosis is one of the most taught pieces of literature in college now, but when he wrote it….

I can’t forget Miss “I am Nobody, Who are You?” Emily Dickenson who had a few poems published in her lifetime, but the publishers significantly altered each prior to printing them.

And then there is the celebrated Jane Austin whose work had gone on to be one of the more recent entries in the Zombie Craze.

Others writers were widely read but died penniless. Edgar Allen Poe was found wandering drunk, babbling, and in “borrowed” clothes just before he died in 1849, and the celebrated Herman Melville’s passing was noted by a single newspaper in which he was referred to as a “long-forgotten author.”

Of course, writers aren’t the only one assailed by such a curse. It’s one of the risks we take when we pursue the life we dream of. But pursue it I will, just the same. This year I resolve not to be published (as I have in years past). My goal isn’t to become famous. My purpose is to write. And to write well.

Recognition is all well and good, but it’s not evenly remotely possible if the extent of my writing life is limited to thinking that “Someday I’ll be a writer.” I have to choose to be a writer today. And so, my friend, do you!

“So let it be written. So let it be done.”

Writing as a Calling, Offering, or Encouragement: Finding your niche in 2013

Writing can be a calling, an offering, or an encouragement,
but if there is no joy in it you may find yourself wondering what the point is.

I read a blog post recently by Book Agent Terry Burns titled “Is writing a calling, an offering, or something else?” In it, Terry posited that a calling is a specific project that is confirmed to the writer in more ways than one. An offering is a gift, something the writer wants to do out of a labor of love but not one that has necessarily been placed before her as a specific task to complete.

Then there’s the third category — one that’s equally important, but perhaps not as specific as a Calling or Offering. Terry referred to this sort of project as an Encouragement.

In this case, Terry writes, “It is possible for God to make it clear that He wants us to use our writing skills for Him, but does not give us a specific book to write. He leaves that up to us.”

This can be incredibly freeing for a writer, or it can make writing even more challenging. It all depends on how we choose to look at it. For many of us, we can’t imagine a life in which we didn’t write, but there are many days we sit in front of the computer and wonder just what words we should commit to the page. It’s not uncommon to question at some point if being a writer is even what we’re supposed to be doing with our lives.

“Where do I fit in?”

This is a question I found myself asking multiple times during the past year. I always pictured myself as a middle grade writer. The fantasy I’ve poured so much time and love into remains an incredible passion of mine but it has yet to catch the heart of the publishing industry despite an editor showing some interest in it last spring. I keep telling myself I’m going to let it go, but I just can’t bring myself to do that yet.

For years I thought that book was my calling, my purpose for being a writer. What if perhaps it was an offering instead? One that taught me invaluable lessons and has done much to hone my skills as a writer.

And then there is The Writer’s Wellspring, which I created to learn how to blog and at the same time to encourage my fellow writers. I’ll admit I’ve often wondered if I’ve utilized it in the manner I’m supposed to. There have been so many times I’ve lost track of my original goal and have gone off in different tangents. During the month of December I strongly debated discontinuing posting here, but have since decided otherwise. I just started another blog called Jots and Thoughts, which I can use for more personal topics, thus allowing this blog to be what it was intended to be, a place for writers to find fresh inspiration.

What will your writing look like in 2013?

The lesson I took away from Terry’s article is that it’s okay to write for the sake of writing. Not everything is meant to inspire millions of readers around the globe. Sometimes it’s enough just to encourage a single soul. Even if that soul is your own.

Writing is a gift. Whether you’re following a calling this year, presenting an offering, or simply just releasing your thoughts into the void, writing should also be a joy. It’s too hard a craft to continue on with if it isn’t.

Does your writing pass the 3 tests of métier?

For me, writing is the only thing that passes the three tests of métier: (1) when I’m doing it, I don’t feel that I should be doing something else instead; (2) it produces a sense of accomplishment and, once in a while, pride; and (3) it’s frightening. — Gloria Steinem

What does writing mean for you?

I was looking for my old organic chemistry textbook the other day and instead found a book I vaguely recall telling myself I would never look at again once I finished Technical Writing. The book is called Writing with Style by John R. Trimble and it’s filled with academic conversations about writing that I found only somewhat interesting during my junior year as an English major.

The above quote was on the first page I turned to and, after reading it for a third time, I found myself asking two questions. The first was: What does métier mean?  The second was: How can I add it to a casual conversation this week?

So I did what every logophile does when she stumbles across a new word. I looked it up.

According to Merriam-Webster, métier means 1) Vocation, trade. 2) An area of activity in which one excels: forte.

Looking beyond the common definition, I discovered it’s an old French word that is derived from the vulgar Latin “misterium,” an alteration of the Latin “ministerium” which means work or ministry.

All thoughts of sounding sophisticated (and even more odd) at my next public gathering where immediately cast aside. That one word had just reminded me of three things about writing. Three things I used to know, but had somehow lost sight of in the last few months.

Three Definitions of Writing

1) Writing is a vocation, a trade. We hear this all the time, but for so many of us it’s still just a hobby. As a result it is often set aside for something “more important” or is overshadowed by whatever is captivating our attention most at a given time. The people who really excel are the ones who stay focused.

2) Writing is an activity, which by definition requires action. It’s also a strength. Writing is a difficult skill to truly master. It’s something a lot of people wish they could do but, like learning to play the violin is something few ever take the time to really perfect. Those who know how to write and effectively communicate a message are blessed. It’s a shame and a waste to ignore that gift.

3) Writing is a ministry. People read because they’re looking for something to speak to them. Words encourage in moments of doubt, strengthen in times of weakness, and bring passion to seasons of apathy. Words open up new avenues of thought, take us to places we can’t visit ourselves, and allow us to understand the world through the eyes of a stranger.

Does my writing pass the test?

As I sit here I have to ask myself if writing, for me, passes the three tests of métier. How often does it fully captivate my attention these days? Do I feel accomplished when I finish a project, and do I ever feel proud of that work? There’s no doubt that it’s frightening. And I think that right there is what’s hanging me up right now.

So now I have one more question I need to find the answer to. What am I afraid of? Because, for me, it’s time to face that fear.

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas, but what does that mean to us?

We’ve survived the biggest sales day of the year. We’ve shared viral videos of the mayhem and brawls in stores over this year’s “Must Have” items. Homes are lighting up with festive decorations and food flows both ways through the door as we gather together to celebrate the season.

It’s both one of the best times of the year and one of the worst.

We hold the end of the year up as a time to gather together and give thanks, to focus on thoughts of peace on earth and goodwill towards mankind, but sometimes it seems we’ve forgotten what compassion looks like. And so much is lost as a result.

As I walk through the streets of my town, I’m more and more aware of just how much I’m surrounded by eyes filled with hurt, with a longing for recognition and a simple word of kindness. And I’m not just speaking of the homeless. It’s in our nature to crave a gesture from someone that affirms we have value, that we’re important no matter where our lives have taken us.

The need to know our worth seems especially great this time of year.

Christmas is a season to focus on the needs of others. It’s a time to reach outside of our comfort zone and into the lives of complete strangers. It’s a moment in time that allows us to experience deep joy and a sense of fulfillment that only comes when we freely give of ourselves to others — with no expectation of any reward in return. 

The holiday season offers us a moment to say, “Your life has a purpose and it is valuable.”

For me, that’s what the birth of Christ is all about: God coming to earth to affirm our value.

It doesn’t matter if he was born in winter, spring, summer, or fall. God, in need of nothing, ruler of all creation, willing chose to become one of us. He experienced cold, heat, love, joy, grief, sorrow, pain, rejection, and abandonment by those he counted most dear. He knew what it meant to be homeless and hungry. To be hated by some and selfishly used by others.

He experienced it all, not to satisfy his ego, but because he simply wanted to know and be known.

The Christmas Story isn’t just about a birth in a stable, a sky filled with singing angels, and the worship of shepherds and wisemen. Like all the best stories, it’s a story of sacrificial love — the most powerful “magic” ever known to humanity. It’s the only kind of love that can battle through the darkest, coldest night imaginable against the strongest, vilest villain anyone could think to conjure up and emerge victorious in the light of the morning sun.

It’s that type of love story I want to write. Not on paper, but in life. And not just in this season, but in every season beyond.

Want to change the world? Start in your neighborhood.

“Is it true that in America there are so many sweets they line streets and everyone can pick them up and eat them whenever they want without ever paying?”

The question was posed to me on my last night in Zana by a girl in her early teens. We had just finished playing our tenth round of Jenga after eating super together. It took my friend Levi and I a couple of minutes to explain that yes, in the States there are sweets aplenty—far more than we should eat in a lifetime—but we do have to pay for them.

After saying our good byes a short time later, I returned to my room to finish packing. I found myself still mulling over the girl’s question. It wasn’t the first put to me regarding the wealth of America, and though we were getting ready to fly home, it wasn’t the last either.

A matter of perspective

It doesn’t matter who we are, or where we come from. Each of us is subject to our own perspective. It’s the lens through which we see the world, and is largely shaped and formed through our own experiences.

Sometimes those perceptions end up being a little cloudy.

One of the most common misconceptions I discovered while in Uganda was that in America there are no troubles. We all live in mansions, wear the latest fashions, hook up with the first beautiful person we see, and drive the most expensive cars. When many hear “American” they automatically think “money.” And by money they mean no hardship, no harm, and no heartbreak.

In America life is perfect.

I won’t argue we have it pretty good here — far better than many of us realize. But all I have to do is drive down my own road to see that we also have hardship, harm, and heartbreak just like the rest of the world.

On the street corner stands an old man. His jacket threadbare, his greasy hair slicked down by the cold drizzle. He isn’t holding a sign, but the haunted expression in his eyes cuts me to the core because I’m as powerless to help him as I was to offer long-term care for the people I met in Africa.

I don’t know what misfortunes brought him to this place. Was it a series of poor choices? Has he, like me, been unable to find permanent work? Is his spirit completely crushed, or is there yet a tiny ember waiting for a gentle breath to touch it and create a new flame?

Coming to a new understanding 

Before I left for Uganda a number of people told me how much they admired me for giving up time and comfort to share with complete strangers in another country. My first day in Zana the same thing was said of our group and I felt a twinge of guilt. At the time, I wasn’t sure why. All I knew was I didn’t feel that I was making a difficult sacrifice by being there. For me it was a privilege and an honor.

Now that I’m home and have had time to think, I believe I figured out what bothered me. We view it as a noble thing to take our charity across borders, but how often do we carry it across the street? We donate towards food and education for starving children in third-world nations (and rightfully so!), but how many in my own community are going to bed with an empty tummy tonight?

While the poor of the world are pitied, so often here in the US they are scorned. I discovered that for myself at a young age and spent my entire young life vowing to escape that stigma. It took traveling abroad for me to realize how backward my thinking has been.

When asked what the greatest commandment of all was, Jesus responded: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all of your mind. And love your neighbor as yourself.”

Putting that knowledge to work

For too long my perspective has caused me to look overlook the needs of those nearest to me. Like my sweet-loving teen I’ve seen America as the place were we have all the means necessary to take care of ourselves without help from anyone else. We just have to make it happen. Those who don’t do so bring their misfortunes upon themselves. I’ve learned for myself this past year, that isn’t always the case.

Rather than being part of the solution, I’ve been part of the problem. And this is something I have to choose to change in myself. What does it matter if I travel the globe aiding others while ignoring those hurting in my own hometown?

One thing I learned in Uganda was the most valuable gift you could give anyone is your time. Even if I don’t have a spare penny, I do have a smile and a kind word to remind even the poorest drunk that he is a person of value. He is not forgotten. And he is never truly alone.

Reflections of a returning traveler

I have considered a hundred different ways to start this post and have rejected every single one of them. Even now I wonder just what I should say.

How do I even begin to express the surprise of being greeted at the airport by what seemed like half of the Sign of the Dove Congregation and being swept up into hugs by people who were as yet strangers but would soon become closer than kin? How do I put into words their generosity as they gathered our baggage from us and carefully led us to the waiting vehicles with admonitions never to step in front of a moving vehicle because they don’t always stop for pedestrians?

How do I describe the darkness of that first night as we rocked back and forth up a rutted clay road, shoulder to shoulder, trying to take in what little I could see by the light of the headlamps? The blaring music as the Muslims celebrated their holy day? The armed guard as we pulled into the hotel? The excitement as we explored our temporary homes, weariness briefly forgotten, and found the perfect bed in which to rest?

Ugandan Sunrise my first morning.

How do I paint the wonder of those first rays of sun pouring over hills densely populated by homes built of intertwined branches, mud bricks, and tin? How the wide leaves of the palm and the plantains swayed gently while deep-throated birds I had not yet seen cried out in a manner similar to a chattering monkey?

A Ugandan field of maize (corn). Photo by Bruk Marsh.

 How do I capture the metallic scent of the moisture-laden air and the thickness of the red clay that clung to my every step, creeping from the soles of my shoes up to my ankles and dotting my skirts with its stain?

A woman prisoner who is also fighting cancer with no treatment.
The vast majority of women in prison are held unjustly,
often as the scapegoat for another. Photo by Bruk Marsh.

How can I convey the countless conversations I had with men and women from the other side of the globe who were just as surprised as I was at how similar we are when we look beyond common perceptions and view each other with the eyes of the soul? Of the shared grief and joy. The same hopes and dreams.

How can I express what went through my mind when a child asked me for a half-empty water bottle to take home because even when surrounded by water, good water can be hard to come by for so many? Or when women brought me a plate overflowing with food they’d carefully spent the day preparing and wondering if what I was being offered was worth a week of their own refreshment?

Storms are sudden and severe. This was after only a few minutes of rain.
Twenty minutes after the storm ended, the water was gone.

And the sounds! The morning and evening calls to prayer. The way the wind whipped across the countryside, bringing with it rain and thunder so monstrous in volume one could shout in her neighbor’s ear and still not be heard. The children shrieking “Muzungu!” and parading before the cameras, all begging to be seen, to be touched, to be known.

Afternoon at a Children's home spent playing games and singing songs. Photo by Bruk Marsh.

When people ask me, “What was your favorite part?” how do I pick a single moment? And how do I tell them that as thankful, blessed, and proud as  I am to be American, I feel as if I’m actually a stranger here and that my home is in that little village in Uganda where I know there are a score of people anxiously watching for my return?

Changing scenery. Changing perspective.

Change has come again.

Watery gray mist swirls past my windowpane as trees huddle and are slowly striped of their pride and glory. No birds dart from their branches this morning, nor do the deer shelter in the shade.

It’s as if the natural world has let out a sigh after a long day’s work and is slowly, carefully disrobing, relaxing, and preparing for a long, well-deserved rest.

Summer is finished. And so is my time at the lodge. Today I turn in my uniform and pick up my last paycheck. There will be no more rising before dawn to greet the bleary-eyed tourist with fresh perked coffee. No more jokes with the cook. No more laughs with housekeeping.

Unlike the scene outside my window though I’m not winding down. In fact, I’m ramping up.

Fall is my favorite time of year for various reasons. While the calendar says a year is coming to an end, I see it as the beginning. It’s most likely because that’s when school starts and new lessons are learned, but I like to think the Bilbo, Frodo, and Sam played a part is shaping that point of view.

The travel bug is always strongest for me in the fall.

I don’t want to sit still. I want to climb mountains just to see what’s on the other side of the valley. I want to drive long distances just so I can smell the earthy perfumes of new towns. I want to listen to conversations I don’t understand. I want to touch people I have never known.

This fall I get to do just that. And I’m going farther than I’ve ever gone before. Uganda.

It had initially been my intention to blog from there, but after some careful consideration I decided I’m taking my journal, pens, and a camera. I’m leaving the laptop at home.

It’s not because I’m scared of damage or theft, rather it’s because I want to be fully present as I serve alongside the people there and I can’t do that if I spend half my time planning what I’m going to write next.

A wise man once said, “There’s a time and a season for everything… A time to plant and a time to harvest.”

It’s nearing the end of our season of harvest here in the States, but there’s plenty of time to plant a few extra “seeds” of ideas. This time of year, I end up with ideas of plenty. I look forward to sharing whichever ones end up sprouting when I return home in mid-November.

Tenna' ento lye omenta, aa' menealle nauva calen ar' malta.

(Until we next meet, may your ways be green and golden.)