Summer is for the imagination…
For swinging high
And painting by
The light of a heart sensation.
Time to unwind.
Thank you, fallen veterans, for making it possible.
Deconstructing the Schedule
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Tag Archives: writing
Old People are Awesome
Slim was giant swizzle stick, Geneva was a little bean. They were the coolest octogenarians in the retirement place. Every evening for dinner, they had a date in the dining room with a sea of blue hairs, chatting about health problems and the cost of prescriptions.
I grew weary of my duties like answering phones. They rang when Security called me on the radio, when Walter wanted his Rx, when Hilda kept asking me the same question over and over even though I was on the phone, the radio, and fishing through the closet for narcotics.
For a while, work was static…showing it’s monotonous face to me when others were swimming in full color…
Until Slim and Geneva zoomed through the lobby. Geneva wanted to keep up with miles-tall Slim, but her little legs couldn’t handle the speed of his scooter. So they came up with a solution that reminded me that dull days and Mondays are seasoned with rainbows too.
She sat on his knee. Yep, his white horse was a retiree’s hot rod, cruising along at the speed of rabbit. She grinned all the way to dinner, on the knee of her prince, knowing the more proper peeps would point and disapprove—and it made my evening every time.
It’s the little things. Look for the good stuff today.
The Magic Sandals
Six years ago, I found a miracle in Walmart.
Yes, I said Walmart.
In exchange for a beautiful, smart, perfect, precious daughter, my husband and I gave up all hope of having spare change. Or high fashion, sleep…dignity.
But we had our Princess, and she was worth it (still is).
Summer was blazing in like a beast and I needed sandals. I’d been wearing my “pregnant” sandals for close to three years, and was tired of the old lady footwear.
Chloe was eighteen months old which means she was allergic to sitting still and silence. Shopping was now a marathon event, and I knew to expect a toddler circus through. every. aisle.
So there I went, walking my ballet-beaten, pregnancy-stretched, flat, achy, feet into Walmart in hopes of finding an affordable sandal that would last me several years and bring comfort at the same time. Did I mention my eighteen-month-old came along to help?
I tried on a few, but my daughter kept running out of my sight, so I grabbed the ones that fit the best and dropped less than $20 at the cash register. I wasn’t overjoyed 
by them, and doubted those cheapies would last the summer, but with our budget, Walmart was THE option.
As soon as I strapped them on, God happened. I loved them. With barely a sole to stand on, they were comfortable. It was as if an invisible cushion materialized, and the strength of the Almighty Himself held those man-made straps together. They held my feet through another pregnancy where my feet stretched a half-size bigger. They survived a run-by-puking when I was hit by a severe bout of morning sickness, when my two BEST leather boots kicked the bucket.
After I had my son, most of my shoes had to be tossed, but those sandals, still size 8.5 with a thinning sole, still magically fit my size 9 feet.
God bless Walmart.
They carried my feet through seasons of financial hardship, races after busy children followed by miles of walking to soothe my babies to sleep.
Recently, I finally bought a new pair of sandals. My magical Walmart shoes lasted me as long as I needed them…down to the day. No fairy godmother can match God.
Do you need it? He’ll bring it. It may not seem like the right answer at the time, but He always comes through when life is one big bundle of crazy.
Have your own magical story to share? Tell us in the comments.
Fashion for The Rest of Us
Ever feel misunderstood? Like you pull on the most awesome outfit of the century, slide into your shiny-like-new car, pull into work with the latest tunes that wrap your “vibe” into one awesome moment—but instead of flowing with the rhythm of awesomeness, your day pukes onto you 15 raised eyebrows, 10 corners of mouths lifted in sarcasm and exactly 1 million snickers when people pass you but are still within earshot?
Oh, poop. I’m still wearing my daughter’s blinged-out head band from our fashion fun this morning. Strangely enough, a few people got it.
Yep, that’s like many of my days. I like to use the word unique, sheesh, even God uses the word, unique, but on some days that word feels more like scatter-brained mess. Sometimes those of us who are normally challenged want less uniqueness and more ordinary. Sometimes.
Really, Jesus used ordinary people to change the world. Of course, Peter had a lot 
of unique foibles with the whole cutting off an ear thing and sinking into the lake when the KING OF THE WORLD was watching. But God still used him for the good stuff.
Think of Peter, think of Peter.
So on those days when I’m not thinking of Peter, I do what the experts say not to do and read the reviews of my novel.
I think I started to twitch about half-way through. Let’s see:
One reviewer: “Lyrical”. Another reviewer: “Staccato”.
One reviewer: “Slow start”. Another reviewer: “Excellent pacing”.
One reviewer: “Outside the classic Christian genre”. Another: “Classic ideas based on the knowledge of God”.
And my all-time favorite: “This would have been a good story, I think, if the author had just used evil people in the story, and left God, the devil, and his demons out of the plot.” They go on later to say it wasn’t enough Christian enough. And yet another reviewer: “It was an interesting and new take on Christian fiction.”
Is my book schizophrenic?
We’ll call it unique.
Some dig it, some don’t, and that’s okay because Peter eventually found his peeps like I’m finding mine. But sometimes, there are misunderstandings that need clarification.
I need to address one thing that a few reviewers have suggested (spoiler alert). They said my book represents paganistic or idol worshipping ideas because God appears to my protagonist as an elk. Negative. God is I AM, the one true God and the Father of Jesus. The elk is a symbol, like the Lion in The Chronicles of Narnia.
This book is for out-of-the-box thinkers, and fans of fantasy, so reader beware. And so is my fashion, heh.
My readers might also get blinged-silly by their children, or even delight in kids that mismatch their clothes because to them, the interpretation works.
Are you a writer with out-of-the-box ideas, or someone who feels too normal? Guess what? There is no normal. That’s why God calls each one of use unique. Tell us your story in the comments.
Have an awesome grooving-with-your-own-vibe kind of Monday.
Dreaming
I hate today. I’m on the couch as I write this, sipping out of a water glass my sweet four-year-old can’t fill quick enough. This is the first time I’ve had a fever since I can remember, and I’m unproductive. What a waste. A big, fat, ugly day filled with piles getting bigger, research not getting done and muscles getting flabby. I consider my weights in the closet—the ones I haven’t used nearly enough because the past few months of busyness have leached a good portion of my time. I curl up under my tea-sloshed blanket and scowl.
I don’t have time for this.
I sift through my email and social media. Everyone seems to be thinking about success today. What is it, really, and how do you know you’ve found it? Am I supposed to consider this as I camp out on my couch, not getting success done? I click on another blog and there it is again.
I just finished reading a book on the meticulous ways to map out a novel before beginning writing—“this is where you find success”, the author said. I think I yawned 2.5 million times before I was half-way through. I couldn’t give that book away fast enough. And extreme organization is a great way to suck the life out of a story if that’s not how you’re wired. I’ve tried it. Success is not found in changing the way God wired you.
Several years ago, someone insinuated that I needed to go back to school. My job didn’t pay enough, it wasn’t prestigious enough, and they insisted I would find success in getting a degree like theirs. They said my idea of advancing in the arts was unrealistic.
Says no one who dreams big.
Thankfully, I ignored them—otherwise I would never have completed and published my novel (and since then, that person’s priorities of prestige and $$$ ended up landing them in a world of hurt). Success is not found in a bank account or in the opinions of others.
My daughter keeps a notebook everywhere she goes—in the car, on her bed—being a sensitive soul, she needs all kinds of creative outlets to express herself. When her glass is half-empty a little too long, I encourage her to write about the things she’s thankful for. Somewhere along her words, she finds her answer—and I find mine. I pick up the paper she handed me before school this morning and delight in her wisdom on the art of ballet. Here is a condensed version of Chloe’s rules for being a successful ballerina:
Be good.
Keep your back straight.
Don’t bend your knees unless your teacher tells you to.
Keep your balance.
Have strength, courage and Faith.
Never give up.
There it is—in the word she capitalized—Faith. That’s where success is. I think many of us feel like a good portion of our time is spent in between Good Friday and Resurrection Day. It’s dark, confusing, and feels like all we have invested our time and energy into has been sealed inside a dark tomb—going nowhere fast.
When success comes, it looks nothing like we thought it would. There are scars. The steps we take from now on require strength, courage and a whole lot of Faith. But someone carries those scars for us, and He’s not the product of human realism. He’s supernatural.
So there’s the answer. Our only option is to dream big.
What is your dream?
Why Shredded Cheese is Awesome
It’s spring break for us this week, and we’re about to set out on a few adventures, but before I go, I want to mention something I’ve learned lately. I’ve been A LOT busy, I mean, overloaded-times-a-thousand-busy, and one of the things that has helped keep me in smiles has been my kids. Children know how to live–they laugh, they have no problems throwing the norm aside and being themselves. So while I take a break before finishing a few (thousand) projects, here is a breath of fresh air from writer, Jeff Goins:
“We are not born embarrassed. Fear and self-doubt are habits we learn, often from those who have teased us into compliance or forced us into conformity. And at some point, if we are going to discover why we were born, we must unlearn these habits.“-Jeff Goins (click here for the entire article)
Here it is: permission to be you, from every angle. Have a blessed week.
Hats And The People Who Wear Them
My little guy wears many hats. His crocheted Yoda hat works well for cool weather, the blue and white striped fedora works well for going out, and his pumpkin stem hat goes on for sleep. He has a shelf full of them, one to identify every kind of event.
I have many hats too. I love them despite the guaranteed hat head—after years of sun damage, a hat is much more valuable to me than stylish hair. Vanity got me nothing but skin cancer.
But the hats I wear most come with valuable names: Mommy, Wife, Friend, Writer, Artist, Employee of that other job, and the not-so-valuable names: scrubber of floors and bathrooms, scooper of the litter box, cleaner of hairballs, puke, random pee puddles, and anything gross and sticky.
What usually happens is the need to pile on multiple hats at once. This is where blessed, too busy, and exhausted morph into one hat. I call it: Huh? It’s kind of like a fedora and pillbox hat in one—half stylish and the other half—not so much.
This hat is heavy, but it’s the hat-in-fashion because we’re supposed to wear it with pride, right?
Wrong.
I have another hat—one that our culture laughs at. It does give me hat head—that pressed down circle around my head. I think many of you wear this hat too (it’s called The Crown)—but like me, you probably keep putting on Huh? because we think it works better to take everything on ourselves. And despite the pillbox influence, people think Huh? looks more stylish.
When The Miracle of Rain came out, someone in the publishing industry sent me an article on how authors are supposed to manage their time. “I have a newborn baby”, I said. “I’ll do my best, but…”
“Read the article,” he said.
So I did. I read how this woman became a bestselling author because she marketed her book full-time, wrote full time, was a full time mom, held down a full time job, went back to college and managed to stay in shape. I’m serious, this woman claimed to have done it all—full time, wearing her extra-strength Huh? hat.
Me thinks her hat was fiction.
The person who sent me that article? I don’t work with him anymore, and I will never put on that hat again because what it does is squeeze your brains until they fall out. And then you have another sticky mess to clean.
But The Crown is light. And it works for you when you need to rest.
Wait—what’s that word?
Rest.
So disregard those brain squishing Huh?’s and the people who pawn them. They’re nothing but bling for the pillbox. The Crown? Well, the Maker of your crown said that people will indeed mock you, but that’s okay, it’s only because they’re tired and unable to see what they’re really wearing. It’s been said that when the whole kingdom wears their crowns, they light up the world. I think our world could use a little more of that.
Sheesh
Hi friends! I’m still catching up with last week. In fact, last week is still chasing me.
Really, it’s holding a flaming torch underneath my feet saying, “You’re not finished with your work yet.”
Even Raphael can’t fight this one for me–he’s gone into hiding.
So have a blessed week, and I’ll see you next Monday.
Noah and Goliath
My son tears through the house with his cape on. I still see a chubby-cheeked baby, but he is not. He is Superhero Noah. He is Thor, defeating the villains, Spiderman protecting his home from invaders.
When I sit him down to practice his letters, he frowns. Even S for Superhero doesn’t capture his attention.
“I need to get the bad guys, Mommy.”
I admit, I have concerns about him starting school in the fall. Is he ready? His legs don’t want to be tamed, they want to run, they want to pedal his bike…he is energy wrapped up in uncontrolled blond hair and smears of ketchup.
He does love books though. He will soak in a story—sitting still—and learn from any kind of adventure, especially if there is some kind of battle.
But if it’s not akin to The Very Hungry Dinosaur or Tyson the Terrible, he has no interest in learning the traditional way.
We read about David. David is a superhero for sure—small guy beats huge giant—Noah is all kinds of excited about that.
Something pops out at me about this story so I dig into it a little more—I even open a book I had waiting on my kindle and begin making my way to the heart of this small King, because no matter how often I have heard about him, flannel-board memories keep popping up and it loses something.
Until I focus on the slingshot.
It’s the slingshot. David doesn’t bat an eye at the seasoned soldiers or worry about his lack of experience. He doesn’t even consider that he doesn’t have a sword like everyone else has.
He hasn’t been schooled in battle. He is a harp-playing Shepherd.
I don’t think he cares about what he lacks. No—he draws upon who his God is, and the tools that God has placed before him and pulls out all he has.
Thump. He kills Goliath with a child’s toy.
I’ve decided not to worry about Noah (as long as I think of David). Because God gave him those busy legs and fighting spirit, and somehow, somewhere down the road, he will face a giant. And hopefully he will remember who God is. Hopefully he will remember that who he is and what he has is more than enough.
What’s your slingshot? Tell us in the comments.
The Lion
There’s something comforting about driving a clunker. Maybe it’s because I come from a long line of clunker owners (present and former). I peer at the narrow nose of my Nissan and remember riding in Grandpa’s Nissan-from-a-different-decade, and smile. Yeah, these are the clatter traps that have taken a few kids through fast-food drive-thrus. They’re permeated with years-old perfume: pine needles from camping trips, French fries, and shampoo wafting from headrests. What’s a new car smell when you can be accessorized by memories?
And there’s a reason why they live longer than dirt—they’ve driven over all of it. Sure, when a car has lost its luster, just spruce it up with some Arizona pin striping. Plow through those cat claw bushes, tear through those dusty trails and be proud of your baby’s new threads.
Anyway, by the time you can afford a new car, you’ve had to replace so many parts in the old one that it becomes like new again.
But with experience.
Would you want an SUV that purrs up a hill, or one that Roars? Uh huh, my Nissan is a Lion. She’s a scarred-up, battle-strengthened, vintage-awesome Lion.
And she’s not afraid to get her wheels dirty.
So if you happen upon a rust bucket Lion today, give her a wave and think about the service she’s done. And remember, one day, your car will be someone’s treasure. Stuff her with joy.
sherryrossman 