Good morning, friends. I’m happy to announce the upcoming release of my book on December 10th. It’s a Christian adventure with a good dose of grit. Stay tuned and have a great Monday.
Faith Seekers
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Tag Archives: family
The Battle of Words
Fantasy literature is a Heaven and Hell fight. It’s the bookstore lumping in witchcraft novels along with heaven’s novels–in the make-believe section–as if nothing beyond the realm of flesh and blood is real. It’s me in the library, walking through the explosion of chapter books, trying to discern between a harmless magic-based novel or a book that will fight for my daughter’s loyalty to something darker.
I tell my princess God is real.
But that other book tells her witches are real, and good.
I show her the Bible, talk to her about the stories. “This isn’t just a book”, I say. “It’s a history book.”
But then she asks me why schools outlaw that history book.
She knows the truth inside that book, but gets distracted by the pretty covers 
shelved alongside it.
We all need something extraordinary beyond our flesh and blood lives so we know there’s a purpose for this earth-and-pain mess we live in. God is that something extraordinary. “But what about what this person said?” she asks.
I could tell her all kinds of things, read to her the story about Elisha and the army of angels and how Elijah called down fire from heaven.
But we don’t see a whole lot of that in America these days. Some say it’s because we’re too distracted.
So I pull that mustard seed from my pocket and hold it out to God.
I had a nightmare—a staggering one—the kind that wakes you up with sweat and fear coursing down your body. I dreamed horror and woke up piercing the darkness with my prayers. I called the only God who ever shows up because I knew this wasn’t just a dream or too much late-night salsa churning inside my belly—this was a battle. The kind bookshelves call fantasy.
The next morning, Chloe said, “I had a dream last night, Mommy.” My heart thumped a little, remembering my own nightmare. But then she said, “There were angels surrounding our house, protecting us, and Jesus came inside to be near us, so we were okay, Mommy. The bad guys couldn’t get in.”
I remind her of that dream when she asks me about God’s abilities. She may tell that dream to someone someday, and they might laugh it off and say it was just a dream, or that she’s been reading too much fiction.
But I hope she remembers to pull out her own mustard seed. I hope she remembers who showed up to protect us that night…and who didn’t.
I believe there’s a reason why we don’t see much fire from Heaven, or chariots of fire coming for our prophets. I think when we started shelving all of that in the fantasy section, we made ourselves blind. We laugh at those stories, call them silly dreams, but when we need to escape—when we need to know there’s a reason for us—we dig into a few books or flip on the TV.
The problem is, along with the heaven-books, there are other volumes with names like witch or daemon that are passed off as fantasy, but that’s really not it. They are the disguised foe—fighting alongside the volumes of heaven for our children’s hearts. Our hearts.
Writers: It’s never just a story. Your work is eternally valuable.
Readers: It’s never just a story, it’s a battle. But you are worth the fight.
Parents: It’s never just a story. Wicca is the fastest growing religion of American children today. You, along with the angels, are guardians of heaven’s children.
You see, a mustard seed is really a sword. It’s that thing that meets us in between earth and the spirit world. Never leave yourself unarmed, and don’t ever forget the Maker of your sword.
The Making Of…
Sometimes I don’t have a blog because Pounce eats it.
Quit blaming me.
But this time, I’ve been busy planning and making my book trailer for Faith Seekers (out soon). Of course, I had a lot of help.
Here’s my proof.
My bro Kenny, the filmster
Me and Cheyenne, My “Hannah”. One Awesome Teen.
Why are we filming in the creepy woods? Because I love stories with a good dose of creepy. Happy Monday, and see you next week.
The Songbird
I never liked caged birds until I met Sweetie. She sat near the entrance in Helen’s apartment living room at the retirement place. Helen loved her, spoke tenderly to her as if she were a diamond on a pedestal. But all I saw was a beautiful creature unable to spread her wings.
Helen was one of my favorites. She was cheerful, tiny—she could have been a little bird herself with her small frame and trill voice—and I never had to worry about gripes or criticisms with her. When I saw her approaching my desk, I knew she’d bring me a smile and a kind word. That was what I needed as I was stuck between a job and a career—just someone to talk to me like I was more than just the staff.
Helen called me in a panic one evening. Sweetie had escaped her cage and 
damaged her wing when she flew through the apartment. I’d never had a caged bird, what was I supposed to do? Birds are supposed to be flying without borders—no wonder Sweetie went for a freedom flight. And this was far outside my job description …but it was Helen.
I put up my “Be Right Back” sign and rushed to Helen’s apartment. It probably took us a good thirty minutes to settle the feathers. Sweetie had cut her wing. I called my husband who had a bird once, and he gave me some instructions on how to treat Sweetie. I found what I needed in Helen’s bathroom and fixed Sweetie right up. “Hope you enjoyed your freedom”, I thought, but Helen gushed over her like she was family. I saw how Helen looked at that little thing. I look at my children the same way when my heart overflows with love for them.
A few years later Helen had to move to the Assisted Living side. Her mind began to scatter a little too much. Her spirits dropped and she didn’t come out of her new place much—but she had her bird. She and Sweetie became inseparable, and Helen took her, cage and all, when she went out for the day, usually with family.
My friend would lose her patience, and eventually her smile, but she kept a firm grip on Sweetie’s cage wherever she went. I’m not sure why she held on so tightly to her bird. But I think she needed someone to sing to her. I think she needed Sweetie to remind her that despite the cage her failing mind wrapped around her, there was still joy out there somewhere.
Maybe when all of us walk through those barred places, all we need is for someone to remind us of the joy out there.
“So with you: Now is your time of grief, but I will see you again and you will rejoice, and no one will take away your joy.” John 16:22
Superheros and Authentic Fashion
Parenting is perpetual construction. It’s the work truck driving adjacent the joy curb, always working—reworking, and an occasional hopping out to stretch the legs. But there is no sabbatical for moms and dads. If there’s not someone in the lane next to you telling you how to drive, it’s yourself—sometimes I lay awake, going over my list of speed bumps:
I said too much there. I didn’t say enough here. I focused too much on the dirty house today. I’m not that mother who can multitask her child and the whole school at the same time—and to be perfectly honest, I don’t want to be—that would be as exciting as doing a math test.
But amidst all the chaos, there are two things I feel good about:
My kids know that Jesus is the only real Superhero.
I don’t make them match their clothes.
Wait-what? Yes, I’m proud of the fact that I let them wear fuchsia polka dots with camouflage pants. Stripes with crazy patterns. A spiderman shirt with batman pants (so as I am writing this, Microsoft word wants me to capitalize spiderman, but not batman—what’s up with that?).
Anyway, why do I let them walk in public looking like they dressed themselves? Because they don’t need to dress for others approval. They need to know it’s okay to be them. They’ll face enough pressure from their peers in a few years—I want them to feel good about making their own choices because they were made like this (by the real Superhero):
“For You created my inmost being; You knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.” Psalm 139:13-14
They weren’t knit together by Prada’s marketing team. They weren’t wonderfully made to feel pressured to have surgeons nip and tuck their uniqueness away.
If God’s works are wonderful…they are already beautiful. They need
My little beauty
encouragement to be them. Who am I to make them feel like they have to fit my standards of beauty, or the standards of the fashion industry, or Hollywood?
Here’s an excerpt from Alissa Quart in her book Branded:
“…many of the teens and tweens I have come across who are drenched in name-brand merchandise are slightly awkward or overweight or not conventionally pretty. While many teenagers are branded, the ones most obsessed with brand names feel they have a lack that only superbranding will cover over and insure against social ruin.”
And it all starts with drawing attention to their appearance.
I listened to an interview at my mom’s group a few weeks ago. Wisdom from a former Victoria’s Secret Model. She said the only reason she got into the modeling industry (and nude modeling) was because her father encouraged her in only one thing: her looks. It took her decades to realize that she had real value.
The only One children need to be concerned with pleasing is the Superhero who laid down His life for them. If they ask you why God made them look a certain way, tell them:
“God saw all that He made, and it was very good.” Genesis 1:31 (emphasis mine)
The Outsiders
There is a field of beautiful weeds next to my daughter’s school. I pull in line alongside it every day with the other parents, creeping along for my turn to pick up my child. The weeds are quite tall now, catching every breeze and butterfly that comes its way. There is the occasional set of tire tracks mushed into the field from a driver who couldn’t wait for the line to move. The school has tried to purchase it in hopes to expand, but that rectangle of dirt and brush is far too pricey.
The land is surrounded on one side by old trees, firmly rooted into the ground in the yards of neighbors. They tower above the weeds, holding court in their superior standing of shade-givers.
But when the light hits the weeds just right, you can see gold. While the sun outlines the trees like halos of honey, the weeds are given the full force of the 
light, casting a breathtaking beauty upon them. They are not weeds in this moment, but the light so many artists try to capture in their paintings. When I finally understood the value of a weed, it changed my thinking forever.
Although not everyone waits around to witness their transformation.
As I approach my 20th year high school reunion, I think about the weeds and wonder how many of us will walk in feeling like we’re pulling a cart-ful of them, and how many will feel like the trees that look down on them. Are my adornments as beautiful—do my shoulders reach as high as the others?
Does the weight of my cart outweigh those of the others?
Despite the joy of seeing old friends, successes will be measured on this day. Classmates will walk in with lists: the accomplishments, and the list that we probably won’t talk about –the failed relationships, losses of all kinds, mistakes.
But the light shines just as bright on our carts of weeds. They are what make us work harder, gain wisdom, and grow beautifully. God didn’t come for the best of the best after all.
I‘m here inviting outsiders, not insiders – an invitation to a changed life, changed inside and out.” Luke 5:32 The Message
Those of us in the weed fields become part of God’s masterpiece—too unworthy in the eyes of those who miss the light—too valuable for the wallets of the insiders.
Who’s With Me?
My goal is to be the youngest thirty-seven yr. old that will ride her son’s scooter. I can’t help it—I watch my kids slide and swing and play in childish delight. They monkey climb everything they can, with lungful’s of laughter and melting Popsicles dribbling over their chins.
I want.
I take a few spins around the park. The sidewalk encircles the grass in a perfect forever trail for anything with wheels. As I push off with my foot, Noah yells, “faster Mommy”.
I will, I will! The breeze crazies my hair as I race him around the grass, him on his bike, me the only grown-up around these parts who is not afraid to do this.
A young(er) mother walks her daughter to the playground, giving me a strange look. I smile. Yeah, you just need to play for a while, I know it by the way you look exhausted just walking through the parking lot.
Watching her invisible burdens weigh her shoulders down is like watching the News and trying to take the weight of all the tragedies onto mine. It’s too heavy, only God can do that. So I pray, then go out and play for a bit.
I fill most of my summer with this. When Noah and Chloe take their bikes out, I run
Proof
behind them. My legs love it, and I love it too because my legs are firmer for climbing ladders to the slide and for keeping up with them as they get faster/taller. The ground is no longer hard and boring—it’s a springboard for launching me over weeds sprouting through bike trails and hearing my son go, “That’s awesome, mommy. How do you do that?”
When I told my kids I’m about to be a published novelist, I get blank stares. But launching over monsoon-inspired weeds? That’s an accomplishment.
Just now, I interrupted my blog to go run through a giant mud puddle. Awesome. And you know what? I think better. I feel great. The fresh air and exercise, the blue sky and play have reminded me that God wants us to take a break when needed. Work at your craft, and pray without ceasing, but trust Him to handle the big stuff, because even the youngest of us grown-ups can’t carry the whole world.
He called a little child and had him stand among them. And he said: “I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Therefore, whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. Matthew 18:2-4
Under Construction
Image
A Mom’s Guide to Writing During Summer Break
1. If you wish to have a garden, water while you write. Don’t worry if your kids trample a few corn stalks, or that you forget to water altogether. After all, plot happens.
Seriously–I planted three rows! Three!
2. For exercise in between chapters, take your kids on a bike ride, but don’t ride one yourself—the workout you’ll get from running after them will make up for EVERY SECOND your rear hits the chair.
3. Expect frequent interruptions from your kids. Just remember, kill your darlings is a writing term, not a real life application.
4. Have contact with other grownups or your adult novel will start sounding like Dr. Seuss.
Wait…this isn’t my laptop.
5. When writing a dark scene, turn off Sesame Street. A murder scene inspired by the voice of Elmo will always end up in the slush pile.
A girl’s tale–guest post by Chloe Rossman, age 6
It’s hard to get the feet moving on Mondays, so I thought I’d bring a little joy for your day. There’s nothing like the perspective of a child, after all, God gave them this command:
Don’t let anyone look down on you because you are young, but set an example for the believers in speech, in conduct, in love, in faith and in purity.
I Timothy 4:12
Chloe’s thoughts on finding joy in the little things.
My mouth makes me smile
My hands make me wave
My feet make me dance
My arms make my hands reach books
My legs make my feet walk
My tummy likes to get full and not full
My chin makes my mouth talk.
My ears wiggle.
My eyes make me see animal’s tails move up and down.
Hats are fun to wear. Clothes are really pretty.
My hair blows in the wind.
Reading books, chapter books, and princess books are really fun.
Raccoons play together.
sherryrossman 