A Small Brown Bird

This morning I saw a dozen sparrows chipping through the ice of a frozen puddle in the parking lot. Each one persistently pecked and suddenly when one broke through the ice, they all did. They did small birdlike things with the water—drank, bathed, refreshed—and hopped around merrily.

Few things look as cheery as a sparrow. He hops around, tilting his head left and right, leaning forward to peck the ground, hopping more, and flitting a yard at a time. The staccato precision of his movements and the sparkle in his beady black eye signal mischievous intent, and his mottled brown feathers, though not vivid, are beautiful.

Civilla D. Martin was also fascinated by sparrows. Born in 1866, she was a schoolteacher. She likely spent her days surrounded by children who were keen on awe and wonder—and you'd imagine that's where she noticed the sparrow, but it wasn't.

In the spring of 1905, Civilla and her husband, Walter, were in New York. They became close friends with a couple named Mr. and Mrs. Doolittle—true saints of God. The wife was 20 years bedridden, the husband an incurable cripple who traveled to work in a wheelchair. Yet, though their griefs should have been many, they lived happy Christian lives, bringing inspiration and comfort to everyone they met. One day, Walter asked the Doolittles for the secret of their bright hope. Mrs. Doolittle had a simple response:

His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.

Walter and Civilla, gripped by her simple expression of boundless faith, wrote a song. It drew from Mrs. Doolittle's original inspiration, Matthew 10:29–31.

Conviction well expressed carries art a long way. More than a hundred years later, a hymn inspired by a bedridden woman and a small brown bird is still around—and still rings absolutely true.

* See the whole story of His Eye is On the Sparrow.

Why should I feel discouraged, why should the shadows come,
Why should my heart be lonely, and long for heav’n and home,
When Jesus is my portion? My constant Friend is He: 
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.

I sing because I’m happy, I sing because I’m free, 
For His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.

“Let not your heart be troubled,” His tender word I hear, 
And resting on His goodness, I lose my doubts and fears;
Though by the path He leadeth, but one step I may see; 
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me; 
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.

Whenever I am tempted, whenever clouds arise, 
When songs give place to sighing, when hope within me dies,
I draw the closer to Him, from care He sets me free; 
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.

What Takes My Breath Away

A lot of things in life take my breath away:

• The "Hallelujah Chorus," from Handel's Messiah. I've heard it probably a thousand times in my life—and my heart still swells with the crescendo and glory of the conclusion.
• The sunrise every morning, even though I can't see most of it through tall buildings. That's the biggest reason my heart longs for the country.
• The memory of people I know and love who are in heaven—and the knowledge that someday I'll be there too.
• Curtis's face when he buys me flowers, or does the dishes, or sees me after I've been at work all day.

There are more, many more, but then you'd be bored and I'd get too distracted.

As a writer, I'm constantly looking for other writers who can make me feel and take my breath away. I read a lot of things every day—and many of them leave me completely unmoved. Writing can be perfectly functional, but it can still leave me uninspired and uninterested. It's a consistent treat to read something excellent.

Today, I read three things that took my breath away.

The first is a casual obituary, more of a tribute, written by Jerry Jenkins about Kent Puckett. I started reading by accident, as I flipped through a 7-year-old publication looking for ideas for a project I'm working on. What began as a casual glance turned into elbows on the desk and complete absorption. I've never heard of Kent Puckett until today—but after reading a 400 word tribute, I feel like I know him. I'm happy for him that he's in heaven, but suddenly I'm missing someone I've never met. Jenkin's concluding remarks are as follows:

“Kent said, “Yeah, I’m trying to take care of myself. Who knows, I might live to be a centurion.” I only wish he had.”

This marks an outstanding piece of writing. Well done, Mr. Jenkins. (Click here to read the whole tribute.)

The second is an email from a friend. Writer's block is something I write about with relative frequency, because I experience it with relative frequency. Whenever I have it, I write about it. It's always vaguely startling when someone tells you something about yourself that you didn't know. Then when you hear it or read it, you can actually hear the thud of the hammer on the nail. Today, a friend gave me advice on writer's block—but it was really advice about life. After rereading the email a half dozen times, I printed it off to put in my special book of writing that has warmed me, cheered me, chilled me, and inspired me. It concluded,

“Those aspirational writers—the ones wearing a French beret and listening to Miles Davis and sipping lattes at Starbucks while waiting for inspiration to strike—they’ll never get it, because they don’t have the discipline to crank out 2,000 words a day, every day.”

I promptly threw out all my French berets when I got home. (Just kidding. Haven't owned one since I was a kid—my brother got me this cool maroon beret for either Christmas or my birthday one year, and I wore it every day until the Fourth of July. I think since then it's gone the way of all the world.)

The third and final is a book. For my birthday, Curtis (he's very wonderful) got me How to Write Best Selling Fiction by Dean Koontz. After opening it and seeing the font and and formatting (and because the cover is BRIGHT ORANGE with BRIGHT YELLOW letters), I checked the copyright date. It's 1981. Almost dinosaur ancient—but, my parents are proof that good things did happen in the 1900s before I was born, so I kept reading.

And it's absolutely excellent. It's a personable, humorous, helpful how-to book about writing, publishing, and editing, but mostly writing. It's spectacular. The title of chapter three:

“The changing marketplace
OR
I’m sorry, but we’re no longer buying epistolary Gothic espionage novels set on the planet Mars in the seventeenth century. Readers seem to be tiring of that genre.”

— Dean Koontz

I've added something else to my list of personal goals: I'd like to learn how to take someone's breath away (in a brief, good sort of way) with my writing.

90 Days

90 days ago, I took a job as an editor at an Integrated Marketing and Communications department for a large non-profit organization. There are different theories about how long it takes to settle in at a new job, but most people say it takes about 90 days.

If you learn something new every day, then I should have at least 95 things to tell you. However, I am not Martin Luther, and this isn't the door of a church in Wittenberg. Therefore, I compiled a brief list of the first three dozen things I thought, and they fit into three categories: skill (editing), relational (coworkers), and work ethic.

Skill:

i'm not the expert
don't be afraid to ask
when you want to know something, go straight to the source
editing is not a one-and-done kind of job
the more you see something, the less you read it
[Insert lots of editorial mechanical jargon here about dos and don'ts]
learning is like putting tools in your toolbox. The more you know, the more you can do
positive energy inspires creativity. Negative energy quenches it
work with confidence, but always double (triple, quadruple) check
editing is rewarding
everyone can teach you something

Relational:

social reality is best navigated in first person
never assume anything about anyone
never make someone feel ashamed of doing what they were told
you impact people in more ways than you know
someone is always watching to see how you handle things
trust is a two way street
some people aren't as funny as they think they are—others are more funny than they know
don't play favorites
don't talk all the time
choose your coworkers freely (you probably don't have a choice anyways)—choose your friends carefully

Work ethic:

work hard
do it right the first time
don't complain
there are two kinds of people in the world: people who go to work to work, and people who just go to work
employees work better if you tell them how well they're doing
the person in charge makes a big difference in the environment
the better you like something, the better you try to do it
work is not a contest
attitude makes all the difference
change isn't immediate
work with confidence, but always double (triple, quadruple) check
take pride in your work
using Pinterest and doodling all morning should not count as "Too busy to finish that for you this week"
being faithful in the little things gets you far in the big things

It's a different pace of life, and time and energy compete more than they used to—but it is worth it, for the learning.

So Long, Last Year

2016

In January I started my first full-time job, and my last semester of undergrad.

February 1, I turned 21 (also, I am completely unashamed that my birthday is my favorite day of the year. Please send gifts.).

In March I rode my bike 7 miles to work with my helmet on backwards (yes, it was embarrassing that I didn't notice till I got to work), ate my first ever maple bacon donut (highly recommend), and picked out a wedding band.

In April my Grandma, who I loved very much, met Jesus face to face for the first time.

In May I sat in a crowded auditorium with 3,500+ people, 300-some of whom were also wearing funny black dresses and flat hats. I walked across the stage (without tripping, might I add), received a diploma, SHOOK HANDS WITH THE PRESIDENT (of the school), and became a college graduate. I also got my first speeding ticket (whoops).

In June I went to Idaho (once) and Indiana (lots of times), got a cover for my book, saw my childhood best friend for the first time in years, made an imprint for publishing my book, got in my first bike real accident (nothing broken, just bent and shaken up), and went swimming at the beach most days on my lunch break.

In July I became a wife, went to Massachusetts, and moved into a corner apartment in downtown Chicago. I also published the eBook version of The Cup.

In August I became the proud owner of a vacuum cleaner, a trash can, and a Kitchenaid (three things that officially make you an adult). I also got one more brother-in-law (Woot Woot!).

In September I changed my last name (which you know is a lot of work, if you've ever done it), got a new pair of running shoes, and started being creative again.

In October I published the paperback version of The Cup, and Curtis bought me a subscription to the Wall Street Journal.

In November we gave thanks to God for the past year of blessing, and five days later the sprinkler head in our apartment exploded and ruined our living room (The Day There Was(n't) a Fire).

In December the brake lines on our car went out, Curtis finished exactly half of his undergrad/grad school career, we celebrated our first Christmas together, and we bought a hamster (on a whim, because we could, and he's small and fluffy and very cute).

It was one of those milestone years, where every time I turned around something big was happening. Some of it was easy. Some of it wasn't. Looking back now, I see how all of it turned out good. Outside of my personal sphere, the world also experienced a lot of change. Some of it was good, some of it was bad, and much of it was very very hard.

Over our Christmas break, we went to see Rogue One. Critique of the actual film aside (it was decent, but there was minimal character development, which was a bummer), there were at least a half-dozen previews before the feature film began. Almost every single one was about humans fighting aliens, humans fighting super-villians, humans fighting crime, humans fighting other-worldly forces, but always, humans fighting. 

I had an epiphany: everything fights humanity.

Because we fight back.

We fight crime, we fight things that are bigger than us, we fight hurricanes and earthquakes and fire, we set ourselves up against insurmountable odds. We do it without question, because it's what we do (like eating and sleeping and hitting snooze).

We live in a world that is littered, left and right, with the evidence of sin trying to win, but we haven't given up. We fight because we are not programmed to back down, because we believe that there is good and it is worth fighting for. We fight because Jesus Christ fought first, fought the urge to choose the easy route, and gave himself be brutally murdered so that we are not doomed to losing eternally.

Humans are the chosen enemy of every fictitious and fantastical world, because we are the only ones who will oppose them, who will stand and deliver in the face of impossibility, who will get knocked down and get up, again and again and again. Humanity is, to the avid warrior, the best opponent, because the human spirit has unquenchable resiliency in the face of insurmountable odds. 

We keep on fighting. Because even when the tunnel is caving in, even when it's dark outside and the stars can't make it through, we cannot just give up. We have to keep trying, even if the victories are infinitesimal, even if it's one step forward, five steps back.

I'm not given to profanity, but 2016 was a h-e-double-hockey-sticks of a year for a lot of people. Really, every year is. But it was also full of hope, redemption, and little kindnesses.

And God was gracious, and let us live in His green world, day after day.

2017 might be a piece of cake. Or it might be even worse. History proves that every year has the bitter and the sweet, intermingled throughout. 

Either way, we'll keep fighting for the better, fighting because God made us to be full of courage, not fear. We fight because the landscape of eternity is much larger than we can even imagine, but what we do still matters.

We are fighters, and even after a year that knocks our wind out, we'll take a deep breath and surge into the next one.

It will be delightful, and there will be delicious moments and snapshots we'll treasure forever. 

It will be brutal, and sometimes we will wish to crawl into a large cave and hide forever.

It will be 2017, and we will fight to live it better than we lived 2016.

It's what we do.

Havoc

This cartoon is a pretty accurate depiction of the past 24 hours of our existence, minus the whole dinosaur/dragon stomping through the city thing.

There was a bit of a debacle with the sprinkler head in our apartment—I'll be publishing a story about it soon.

In the meantime, we're embracing the abundance of God's protection over all we really hold near and dear.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving

I say thank you to a lot of people: the person who holds the door open for me, the waiter who brings me my drink, the cashier who sells me groceries, and the people who call me every day ("Thank you for calling..."). Not counting the phone calls, I say it at least a dozen times a day, to the person who stands back so I can walk first, to the girl who gives me my newspaper every morning, to the lady who brings donuts to work every few weeks.

I say thank you without thinking. It's as natural as breathing or blinking or pulling my sleeves down when my forearms get cold. I say it without looking at who I'm saying it to, without considering what I'm thanking them for, without expecting them to take it sincerely, or even respond.

“I’m a thank you machine.”

No one expects me to mean it when I say it, no one asks for clarification, and barely anyone gives a resounding 'you're welcome.' Our culture uses thank you as a filler—when it's awkward or we don't know what else to say but we feel the obligation to speak. 

We say thank you because someone, somewhere, years ago decided that it was the appropriate and polite response to receiving a service that was bestowed voluntarily (or not). We say it because living in a sphere of entitlement that greets small favors with boorish self-satisfaction is disgusting to us. We say it because 2000 years ago, when Jesus Christ walked the earth, he healed people and praised them for their faith and gratitude. 

We barely know what it means to give or receive true gratitude, because we often feel like we deserve what we're given, and we don't think it matters how we receive it, because after all, they owed me.

Often the things we don't expect shock us into true thankfulness.

When I was in college, I didn't have any money. Ever. I was paying my way through school, working constantly, sleeping not enough, and trying not to do poorly in the classes I was working so hard to pass. Needless to say, extras like good shoes and winter coats were optional (disclaimer: my parents love me and took very good care of me and weren't neglecting me), and I didn't often buy things for myself that I actually needed, because when you don't have the money for something... You learn how to live without it.

One day, mid-October I scheduled time to meet with a good friend who was visiting from out of town. When he initially saw me, he looked down at my feet and raised his eyebrows. On my feet was a beat-up pair of hand-me-down Toms I'd gotten in high school and worn consistently ever since. On one foot four of five toes were sticking out, on the other three toes and the side of my foot were open to the chill fall air (a smarter person would've worn socks, at least). He commented about my shoes and I shrugged, noting that I'd probably buy shampoo and conditioner before I'd spend the money on shoes.

We hung out all day, ate dinner, and talked about a lot of things, both important and minor. At the end of the day as I was leaving, he handed me some money and said, 

“Go buy yourself some new shoes.”

I didn't look at it while he was standing in front of me, because I'd been taught that evaluating a money-gift in front of the giver is rude. I put it in my pocket, got on the train, and forgot all about it for about half an hour. When I remembered, I pulled it out of my pocket and flipped through the bills.

There were three hundred dollars.

Keep in mind, to a poor college student with a consistent average of fifteen dollars in the bank, all that money felt like the bank of England was cashing in all stocks and bonds. I counted it a few times to make sure it was really that much, then put it back into my pocket and searched for a tissue to dry the water that was mysteriously dripping down my cheeks.

The worst part about it was that I couldn't say a real in-person thank you. But I think even if I could have, I wouldn't have known how to do it well enough. 

I would have spluttered and turned red and probably gotten out a "Thank you so much," that didn't come close to covering the depth of my gratitude or the kindness of his generosity. 

But I have a feeling that to him, maybe that would have said it well enough.

It isn't the carefully manicured "Thank you" that stays in the heart—it's the messy, red-faced, teary-eyed recognition that reaches the sensitive parts of our hearts and mentalities. What if every thank you we said was for something we didn't expect, for a gift that felt too large, for the life that we didn't realize was so fragile but now we're so grateful we still have? 

“Being thankful shouldn’t be robotic—it should be a mindful and genuine reaction to a gift that we’re given that we don’t deserve. ”

It's Thanksgiving tomorrow. There will be a lot of trite thankfulness, quickly said so we "can hurry up and eat." If you were giving thanks for something that you weren't expecting and you didn't deserve, it might change your style of gratitude. 

It might be a good change.

The Yellow Mustang

One of the bonuses of fall (besides the obvious: spices, pumpkins, orange-yellow-rose, sweaters, scarves, etc. etc.) is that the leaves fall off the trees and you can see what's been hidden for 7 months. This is especially fortunate for us, as we live on the 8th floor and our windows are surrounded by trees. Across the street there's a parking lot for an apartment building, and for the first time all year we can see it. 

There are a bunch of cars in the parking lot (you didn't need me to tell you that, I'm sure). Lots of residents exercised adult sensibilities when they were purchasing their cars, and there are rows of gray and black, some silver, several white, and one or two deep maroon. 

But one person—one blessed, carefree, personality filled person—has a bright yellow mustang.

Unfortunately for this picture, even though the leaves fell, the trees are still standing strong.

Honestly, it stands out like a sore thumb.

But at the same time, it is refreshing, bright, and, well... Yellow. Which is the color of sunshine and bumble bees (inside the black stripes, of course) and daffodils, all wonderful things.

I continue at the risk of drawing an analogy that's too complex or far-fetched. 

It's easy to feel like the yellow mustang in a world full of gray and silver cars. Some of what defines me is absolute: my faith, my family, my husband Curtis (he's very wonderful), my definite introverted personality. Other parts of who I am are a choice: cheerful, buoyant, thoughtful, and careful. 

The absolutes are like the parts of the car that it can't run without—engine, axles, gears, tires (a proper mechanic could lend a lot to this analogy). 

The choices are like the aesthetics: leather or upholstery, fancy chrome rims, and the paint job. 

The problem with people (myself included) is that we struggle to see past the yellow paint. This in turn makes our interactions with most people about as meaningful as a drive-by speculation on the color of someone's car. We assume that everything we see on the outside is everything they are on the inside, and go from there. 

It's not practical. It's not relational. But it's certainly easier.

Looking past the paint is hard—it takes work, it takes sacrifice, and it's not always comfortable.

But it's so worth it, because under the paint people are individual, odd, and beautiful, and so much more than just yellow or gray. 

The color is very important, but the buck shouldn't stop there.