About sherryrossman

I'm a tea-loving momma who loves to write. And when I say write, I mean exploring the things of life we get tastes of in dreams, in the things that go bump in the night, and those that hover at the corners of our eyes. No matter what they are or aren't I believe God holds all these things in His hands.

Hope Exists

Posted on December 14, 2015 by sherryrossman

Lately, it seems my blog goes out a little later each week. Like many others, our days are as lit up with as many colors of activity as those of the houses this time of year. My son is also going through some health issues–have you ever tried to determine if a young boy has food allergies? It’s about as elusive as spotting Rudolph’s nose in a sky of fiction. Except somewhere, in the midst of unpleasant tests and many head scratchings, there really is an answer.

The world is a little darker these days, and some of us look to the next president for hope, the next administration for support, but really, mankind doesn’t have control over the deepest part of hope. We might as well keep searching for Rudolph. But it is why we need to celebrate Christmas…not for the excessive activity and chocolate pies, but to remind ourselves there is always supernatural hope, even in the darkest of times. He already defeated darkness, we just tend to lose track of the True Light amid the crazy fray.

One of my many activities? Wake was released for pre-order. Here’s a little taste (not unlike how many are feeling today).

Don’t forget, there’s much more to our days than just existing. See you next week.

Magic in the Green Bean Aisle

Posted on November 30, 2015 by sherryrossman

She appeared in nearly every aisle we went. Cutting us off with a half-way “sorry” as the gray haired woman finagled her way in and out of the cracks between shopping carts and turkey hunting families, I came upon the last thread of my patience in the produce section. There she stood, blocking my way to the yellow peppers as she relaxed in front of them, meticulously sorting through the green beans. She carefully inspected them for imperfections before filling her bag. One. By. One.

The pressure inside me intensified, filling my ears with smoke. Pumping my heart to full beast mode. I’m sure this woman could sense the creature morphing beside her, but she was fully dedicated to her bean inspection. I could hear the warning siren going off in my head.

Assuming the woman experienced a season in her life where she had to balance 10 million things at once, I hoped she would have some grace and realize not everyone had time to wait for her to inspect the whole bin of green beans. Where’s the tolerance for imperfect produce?

But no, she either didn’t remember or didn’t care, because she just stood there with a colony of pilgrim descendants waiting for her to choose the perfect green beans. She turned aside once, trying to charm her way into our hearts by noting how cute my son was. My charm meter has been finely tuned to detect veiled manipulation, so I just clenched my teeth and waited.

Maybe the shopping frenzy from November through the end of December is the true Antichrist, I don’t know.

But in the midst of green bean #30, God stepped in line beside us. I don’t know that He said anything in particular, but laughter at the green bean situation suddenly bubbled up inside me.

Sometimes I need help laying stress down. Thankfully, God shows up in grocery stores and in the midst of our impossible schedules. I made a decision.

If my house isn’t clean enough, it’s because I’m looking at God’s magic.

If someone doesn’t approve of the way I do things, or don’t do things, I’ll just turn my head to look at His grace.

God’s magic is just one glance away from our distractions. I pray that God will pour His grace and loveliness into your holiday season.

Wake up to the Art Revolution

Posted on November 23, 2015 by sherryrossman

My maiden name is Darwin. Before I married, there was a two year season where cashiers everywhere exploded in curiosity—my debit card said I was a Darwin, yet a cross necklace hung around my neck.

“Are you related to Charles Darwin?” (Yes, indirectly)

“Did he really disprove his theories?” (I don’t think so, but he was aware his theories were unproven ideas as opposed to the stance of our modern educational system)

One of my acquaintances criticized my decision to write Christian Science Fiction. Baffled, I asked, “Why?”

“Because science and Christianity don’t mix”, he said.

I was happy to inform him that The Bible not only contained science, but his statement was a shockingly unsound stereotype.

Lesson number one: don’t be afraid to do your own research.

Despite the fact that some religions such as Christianity are quickly becoming taboo and misunderstood, people still search for the God of miracles. No matter how illegal, unpopular, hated, and stereotyped He becomes, there will always be longings within the deepest parts of us that will cry out for answers far beyond our knowledge. This is not ignorance–it’s a journey toward the extraordinary. One of the most powerful expressions of this journey is the arts—paintings, music, literature–those things that speak beyond the questions we don’t have answers for.

Picasso expressed his heart well in The Geurnica–his reaction to the devastation of the Basque town of Guernica when the Nazi’s targeted it for bombing practice during the Spanish Civil war.

I wouldn’t hang it on my wall, but I can certainly feel the anguish. I can read about the incident in the history books, but with Picasso’s painting, I get it.

Giacomo Cavedone shows us Stephan, the first man killed for following Christ. Here is the martyr’s last recorded moment:

⁵⁴When the members of the Sanhedrin heard this, they were furious and gnashed their teeth at him. ⁵⁵But Stephen, full of the Holy Spirit, looked up to heaven and saw the glory of God, and Jesus standing at the right hand of God. ⁵⁶“Look,” he said, “I see heaven open and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God.”

⁵⁷At this they covered their ears and, yelling at the top of their voices, they all rushed at him, ⁵⁸dragged him out of the city and began to stone him. Meanwhile, the witnesses laid their coats at the feet of a young man named Saul.

⁵⁹While they were stoning him, Stephen prayed, “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.” ⁶⁰Then he fell on his knees and cried out, “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.” When he had said this, he fell asleep. Acts 7:54-70

A man willing to die for Christ is a man who knows Christ. In his last moment, Stephan was able to exist here and beyond simultaneously. That’s a powerful bit of history I would hang on my wall. Waking up each day with a visual reminder that beyond is close enough to touch would make my steps a lot more purposeful.

But art can be dangerously powerful against those wishing to silence a people. What would happen if religion was outlawed? And then the expressive arts, because it encouraged rebellion? Sooner or later, history might “lose” documentation that would encourage people to rebel against these laws.

We would fall into forced ignorance…

But what would God do?

What if God decided to show a boxed in world how uncontainable He was? Who would He raise up to peel open the door to heaven?

What do you think would happen?

This is a story I’ll be bringing to you in my soon-to-be-released book, Wake, brought to you by the newly formed Darwin House Press. If you have any of your own theories, feel welcome to share them in the comments.

Snow and Fashion

Posted on November 16, 2015 by sherryrossman

It’s a Snow Day. As you can see, there’s not much on the ground, but it’s Arizona. So school was delayed, my blog was delayed, and well…I’m going to have a guilt-free week off.

But before you go, who likes t-shirts? Who likes symbolic t-shirts? Rook Publishing (Faith Seekers) set this up on Zazzle. Go take a look, and have a GREAT week- before-Thanksgiving week!

P.S. This is my favorite:

Wake

Posted on October 26, 2015 by sherryrossman

A YA Christian Fantasy. Coming Soon.

The Beauty of Lumps and Bumps

Posted on October 19, 2015 by sherryrossman

Life drawing, or drawing nude people, was one of the most interesting of my college classes. To see where muscle and bone interact is important in learning to draw the human form. For example, if you want to paint a woman working in her garden, you need to know what her triceps are doing as she leans forward, lifting

We were timed on each piece. I think this was a two minute attempt.

her arm to water the roses. How do you capture the right proportions with her arm outstretched and quads flexed to keep her balance…how does her skin stretch across her knuckles as she grips the watering can?

It helps to know what’s underneath so you can accurately bring the action to the surface. Of course, you never know all that goes on underneath unless a person is completely nude, and you’ll just have to trust me on that one.

Some of our models were athletic, some were obviously sedentary, and several were in between. The body can speak volumes without a single spoken word. Beauty, however, is a little different in the art world. Outside the studio, it’s all about looking young, fit, and stylish. But inside the studio, we capture the essence of beauty. The eternal kind of beauty—the kind people will pay thousands to grace their walls with. It could be a stolen glance between lovers, a deeply-lined palm of hand, a belly ripe with new life.

We called him the “Jesus guy” because he looked like all the old paintings.

To this day, I like to guess what someone’s feet look like by the wear of their shoes. I know my own look a little different after years of ballet and two pregnancies. They’ve widened and changed shape and my shoes do show their story.

Several years ago, the retirement place where I work hosted a dance every Tuesday evening. Outsiders were invited—a handful showed up on a regular basis. One woman, along with her husband, shuffled in with her feet stuffed into slim, low heels. The shoes were so tight, her skin muffined out of them, and her gait was more of a limp. With every step, I could feel her pain. I don’t know how she managed to dance that way—I suppose she thought dance shoes had to look sexy, even to the point of pain. But she just didn’t fit the mold anymore, and she heeded the world over The Sculptor.

I could have told her that she’d dance much more beautifully in her Grandma shoes. Grandma shoes are made to cushion years of sacrifice—they’re made to support years of children, grandchildren, and all kinds of battles.

They hug the bulges pushed out from Love, and make smooth the tread of eternally beautiful feet.

Eternally beautiful feet aren’t necessarily young, or fashionable, and only some of them are

Everybody’s favorite model. She had a certain essence.

fit.

But we know The Sculptor has spent much more time and care on them than any sexy heel fashioned by the world.

I could have told the woman that The Sculptor would rather her wear Grandma shoes—that He would want her to celebrate freely all the things that made her feet change. But my words wouldn’t have mattered if she didn’t realize the value of all those hidden things.

Go boldly into this week, knowing you were made to shine through any kind of surface.

The Broken Paradigm

Posted on October 12, 2015 by sherryrossman

During fall break I took my kids to my mom’s place. It’s nice out there with a few acres to run free. We followed Chickenpea’s (mom’s dog) trail along the fence line he carved to chase cars. It starts out nice and clear where only a few feet separate him from the road, but about thirty yards along the fence where the cat claw and desert brush thicken, the trail becomes spotty. We made a game of it, pushing our way through the weeds to find the driveway once again.

Along the way, we stumbled upon my old fort. A tilted monster stone pushed up against a hill fringed in thorn bushes made “headquarters” for me and my friend Mike. I even found the cactus he fell on when we pretended to run from bad guys. It looked small compared to the porcupine it made of Mike when he was about six years old. They both survived and thrived.

My daughter devoured my memories, pouring through the fort and my old yearbooks. She laughed at the photos of my “awkward” years, and oohed over the evidence that I was indeed a cheerleader for a season. I’m really not the cheerleader type, but at the time I enjoyed it and I’m glad for the experience. I

I’m on the bottom right. What was I thinking?

endured the try-outs (pretty tough for a wallflower), pulled on that stifling hot sweater at every basketball game and learned to kick higher and yell a little louder than I ever had. I even surprised myself.

Every Friday, my school gathered around the flagpole for the pledge of allegiance, to sing the school song (Go Bobcats!) and for announcements. Once, in eighth grade, my teacher called me up for making the honor role. I assumed it was a mistake and didn’t go forward. It wasn’t, and that surprised me too.

In fact, lots of things have surprised me which pretty much proves why it’s okay to leave the well-worn trail for the unknown. I followed art, but ran into writing. I prefer to hang in the background, but since my college days, find myself being ushered to the front. Sometimes I decline, but occasionally there’s this soft voice that says it’s time to get uncomfortable.

It’s okay when things don’t go exactly our way. It’s okay to point our feet toward God and His unknown heights, even when He seems too far away, because when we underestimate ourselves a little too often, He might surprise us by showing us what we can do.

Have you found yourself veering from your carefully plotted trail? Tell us in the comments.

The Lottery

Posted on October 5, 2015 by sherryrossman

In college, I invited a few friends to my hometown. One of them, we’ll call him Nate, came from the city—a large city, with traffic lullabies and amazing theaters and bars full of clean and polished people. He was as Left as I was Right, but we both loved the arts and shopping, so our friendship blossomed enough to shade those conversations we tiptoed around. When he stepped a Birkenstock-wrapped foot onto my parent’s rural property, he grew quiet. And a little bit scared.

I suppose the sound of crickets…and not much else…was foreign to him. And of course, there were wide stretches of unoccupied land, a few neighbors with horses—it was somewhat like the contemporary westerns on TV. I suppose there were some bold ideas pounding on his head about small-town conservatives. You see, his lifestyle was controversial as well, but I had hoped our friendship was enough proof to show him that Jesus follower was the farthest thing from hater.

He eyed the saddle, the chaps, the fireplace—the only source of heat—and grew a bit pale, I kid you not.

The gun shop next to the house.

And when we began to pray over the meal, he looked as if we were about to pull out The Lottery box and sacrifice him to the gods of harvest.

Shirley Jackson wrote The Lottery in 1948. In the story, a small rural town participates in a lottery every year—the unlucky person to choose the paper marked with a black dot must be stoned to death in order to ensure a good harvest. Even children weren’t spared from participating. I had to read this story a few times in my early education, and each time I hated it a little more. What was the purpose of putting readers through that?

So Nate, familiar with only the stereotypical version of small town life, nearly fainted when the theater of his mind nearly caused him to miss the fact that we ate supper with progressives and even enjoyed their company.

I was as surprised to discover how backward Nick thought small-towners were as he was to realize we didn’t reject him for his opposing worldview—there were plenty of people who did, though—I remember the taunts he had to endure when walking through the dorms at school.

After our trip to the sticks, we returned to campus and laughed about it because friendship has a way of pushing through the muck.

But a few mornings ago, when reading the myriad threads of political discussion on facebook, I realized that we are indeed living in The Lottery–in more ways than one. The comment that reminded me of that horror story went something like this: “We need to stand behind Planned Parenthood because if we don’t allow abortions, we’ll end up supporting more low-income kids.”

That seemed to be the majority opinion—to weed out the low-income kids as if that sacrifice would cause our monetary harvest to grow. There was also mention of deformed babies, as if they had no more value than a weed in a garden.

Nate and I didn’t discuss everything in depth, but maybe we should have—maybe if more Lefts and Rights learned how to sit down at supper together, we could talk rather than throw stones through the safety nets of cyberspace. It seems as if that’s all we do now–throw stones and target those who are different. I’ve read the Bible. Jesus loves the outcasts, the crippled, the hurting. He came for them.

So here we are friends, smack dab in the Real-Life Lottery. But unlike in 1948, when Shirley Jackson received hate mail for her story, we’re embracing this lottery system and calling it progressive.

A tiny heartbeat, no matter how poor or different, is not a weed, but a life in need of Love.

“Explaining just what I had hoped the story to say is very difficult. I suppose, I hoped, by setting a particularly brutal ancient rite in the present and in my own village to shock the story’s readers with a graphic dramatization of the pointless violence and general inhumanity in their own lives.” –Shirley Jackson

Perspective

Posted on September 28, 2015 by sherryrossman

Despite the whir of deadlines blowing in with fall, my dog still gets her morning walk. She naps until I return from taking the kids to school. Black licorice fur nestled into the couch with her floppy lips squished half-way to her nose, tail thump-thump-thumping a slap-happy rhythm. Walk now! Walk now! Walk now!

I remind her to get a drink of water because she’s a hyper puppy and will occasionally play until the froth of dehydration lines her mouth. It’s all about living in the moment.

She licks a few from her bowl then I strap my phone to my arm and off we go, walking along the weedless lawns of unoriginal-house-ville.

Usually, I take a big breath of fresh air and thank God for the town I live in because the mornings are always lovely, there are still a few patches of undeveloped land—and it amuses me that no matter how much sprucing of lawns people do, dogs will pick the most beautifully manicured bush to pee on. All of them. It’s no wonder the more elite greenery is discolored.

Don’t get me wrong—I love seeing the neighbors caring for their lawn. I can literally see affection spilling from some of them—arms to watering cans, life to flowers—beautiful touches to otherwise drab rows of brown and brownish and somewhat-brown southwestern homes. And then there are those in industrial strength masks, and gloves that would make a welder proud, attacking their yards as if a single weed might engulf their pristine home.

But dogs don’t care. They just want to enjoy every moment. The moment, not the results.

Peeing on the most attractive bushes.

Dogs are so happy. They don’t care if the bush grew roots in the Finest Garden Center or if it was pilfered from the sticks. I’m convinced they’re put on this earth to remind us all to relax.

*lick*

We like walking along the trail around the community too. There are weeds everywhere, but when the light hits them right, it looks like we’re surrounded in a sea of gold.

That’s what dogs see—gold around every corner. And that’s why Bella’s time comes before I sit down to work—so I remember the results are meaningless if I can’t laugh over the messes it took to get there, and the joy it is to just be.

The Hot Debates

Posted on September 21, 2015 by sherryrossman

It’s been a while since I’ve given my ear to politics. With two small children, engaging in adult activities has been a neglected luxury, but now that my littlest one is in Kindergarten I have a few hours to listen. And breathe.

In AND out.

It’s nice being able to form a complete thought again–to be hugged by the calm of morning. What surprised me most is this: a little chaos is actually a good thing.

The best example would be the presidential debates. Up until now, I’ve found them pointless. After watching presidential hopefuls running around questions like they’re participating in a dodge-ball tournament, I quit watching them. Nothing like a roomful of political correctness to stifle the truth of things.

But the mad scramble for the oval office right now is the most educational and entertaining thing on TV right now.

What?

Absolutely! They’ve ( a few at least) thrown political correctness aside to finally get to the heart of matters. I suppose it took our current mess of things to do it, but the chaos is refreshing. Why?

People are getting Mad. Offended. INTERESTED. Donald Trump is so politically incorrect right now, that people are tuning in and CARING what each candidate has to say. Even the hot debate guy’s opinion is sought after. Do people take you more seriously if you look handsome while watching politics? Is this sophomoric?

Not if it gets people interested.

Hilary Clinton has garnered so much attention by her inaction that people see the importance of finally taking action.

It’s okay to state an unpopular opinion. Please do if you think it’s important. Complacency is quickly swallowing our country, so feel free to say something offensive if that’s what it takes to light the fires in America’s cold, revolutionary britches.

Go ‘Merica!

sherryrossman

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