Scary and Sensational - James

I didn't know James very well.

I thought I had time.

I'm always so busy on Sunday mornings, people to connect with, t's to cross and i's to dot.

So busy that often a wave or a smile was all I had for James and the kids who came with him.

James lived a life I know nothing about.

I have parents who loved me and nurtured me. He didn't.

I have family that I can call my own, or call when I need them, or call just to laugh and reminisce. But James made his own family. A group of people who knew him and those who didn't know him so well, and Jesus.

James. A kid finally on his own two feet, earning his own way in life, making plans and grabbing his dreams with both hands, died this weekend.

In the wrong place at the wrong time. A shooting. One minute he lived to make the world a better place and the next he crossed over into a better place.

What do we do with moments like this, when all the lace and frills have been ripped off the walls of our blinders and we see this world for what it really is, brutal...

I think James would hope we'd open our eyes to the blinding reality and turn to the truth, hope and peace we can find in Jesus.

But I can't answer for James. I didn't know him very well.

Maybe his short life is a call for me to leave i's undotted and t's uncrossed when it means I can use that time to know people -- while there's still time.

Serials and Scenarios - Return to Me

Robin Lee Hatcher's latest book reviewed below. Click on the book cover to visit Amazon's Return to Me page. Robin answered the standard dregs questions and I'll post them on Friday (8-03)

My Review:

Roxie and Elena, broken, misunderstood and desperate for the same thing -- love -- choose different paths to get it. Elena, the good girl with the long list of do's and don't's, and Roxie, the rebel.

This modern reblending of the truths within the story of the Prodigal made me think and struggle with the reality of God's raw and generous grace, and the hearts that feel either unworthy or stingy.

Robin Lee Hatcher is a fine wordsmith and provided tension and multi-faceted characters. I especially liked the backstory as it unfolded in memorable events as seen through the eyes of Roxie and Elena as children. The struggle between sisters put me in a position to choose whom to root for and I couldn't decide because I understood how they each made the choices they did, and how much it cost them to do so. I was uncertain how the story would play out until the end so this was a quick read for me. Another book to blame a pile of unfolded laundry on.

Hatcher and women's fiction fans should find much to like in Return to Me.

Scribbles and Scrambles - Pat's Problem Pet

Lest you think that Pat only has problem with fowl, allow me to reassure you. That is untrue. Pat has encountered peril and pet issues with cold-blooded pets also.

My brother owned a water dragon. This little creature is a cute lizard, if there is such a thing. One of the cutest things about the lizard is that it can run on it's hind legs. This lizard is also known as a basilisk lizard and Jesus Christ lizard because of their ability to run across water.

I witnessed the speedy hind-leg lizard sprinting once and there was no water to run across, just some children it desired to escape. Most of the time, Tyrone, the lizard hung out on a branch in it's sweet custom cage with it's paintpan swimming pool. He'd eat various tasty bugs, move an eye on occasion and mostly digest.

Because Tyrone was such a laid back kind of a guy, he had free access. The home was other pet free, which meant no predators and honestly, the lizard rarely left the branch. Except during egg laying season. Yep, Tyrone or maybe Tyrecia ,was a female water dragon.

Pat had trouble waking up one morning. He'd showered and gotten dressed in his shorts and t-shirt, ready for a day working around the homestead. But he'd made the mistake of sitting on the side of the bed and then went ahead and laid down. As he dozed and dreamed about getting up and getting on with it, he hadn't a clue that Tyrone wandered the upstairs, looking for a place to lay an egg.

Unfortunately, Tyrone found a branch of an unusual sort in my parent's bedroom. A hairy tree with a really funky root system. I've mentioned Pat's killer knee reflexes, right?

Tyrone came through unscathed (put the phone down. PETA does not need to be notified). Oh, Tyrone probably suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Just because a lizard can run across water doesn't mean it likes to fly.

Pat lived to tell about it, too. No blood was drawn, just a simple failure to communicate.

Tyrone found a place to lay her egg, under a really nice hairless branch next to a lovely blue plastic paint pan pool.

Serials and Scenarios - Kathleen Popa Breezes By

Kathleen Popa blew through for a visit to answer a few questions.


Fiction character you most identify with and why?

Jo in Little Women. I’ll bet you get that a lot. Do you suppose Louisa May Alcott knew how many women would pray, “Please God, let me be Jo.”



If you could ask any person, living or dead, a random question -- what question would you ask of whom?

I’d go to whoever was proprietor of The Eagle and Child Pub in Oxford in 1939 when the Inklings (a writers’ group consisting of C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien and others) met there in a back room, and ask, “May I please, please just sit by the door and listen?”



Some out there in writing land have strange rituals. Share yours.

I keep an 1.5 liter Gallo Wine jug on my desk when I write – filled with water – to replace mindless snacking with mindless hydrating. It works.


What period of history intrigues you the most?

The past 100 years. My grandfather’s life spanned from one end of the 20th century to the other, and when he passed away, I helped to write his obituary. Out came the photos from his childhood, and there was one of his mother, all whale-boned, bustled and pin-tucked from neck to toe. My grandfather was a young man when he first saw an airplane or an automobile.

And there I sat in my blue jeans and bare feet, summing his life up on a desktop computer, wondering, how did we get from there to here in one lifetime?

The house I live in was built in 1898, and I love to walk through, touching banisters and door jambs, thinking of the all people who lived here, the Victorians and flappers and Rosie the Riveters. What did they wear? What did they have for breakfast? What did they worry about? And especially… what did they read?



What would you write if there were no rules or barriers? (epic novels about characters in the Bible, poetry, greeting cards, plays, movies, instruction manuals, etc.)

Exactly what I’m writing now— only better. The barriers I care about are in my own mind, and my own heart.

As to genre’s or topics, what would be the point in writing something I have no passion for?

Of course, it helps that I never wanted to write about Amazon floozies with chain saws…



What makes you feel alive?

Getting up in the morning. It’s all life.



How does a story worm its way into your heart? Through tears, truth, humor or other?

I love stories that make me laugh, and I love the ones that make me cry, and I especially love the ones that do both. But if a story makes me feel that I have looked into the face of God and lived, then that story, and that author, has my heart forever.



Book, music, person, food you would take with you on a very long trip.

Only one of each? This is hard.

Easiest to choose: I’d take my husband. I can’t be away from him for more than a day or two without going into a decline.

Not so easy to choose: I keep changing my mind on this one, but I think I’d take some beautiful Andean music by Oscar Reynolds, because it’s perfect for a happy day. I saw him playing live one Christmas in the middle of a mall in San Jose, like a one-man band with his guitar and a whispering set of panpipes rigged under his chin. He must have seen that I was enchanted by his music. Over his panpipes, without missing a note, he shot me a wink.

Almost impossible to choose: Perhaps my Thomas Merton Reader, if it’s going to be a long trip. There’s enough in that book to keep me reading, and thinking, for a very long time.

As to food: Penguin Mints. Sugar-free peppermints laced with caffeine, in a natty little black, white and yellow tin. The perfect writer food.



Where would you most like to travel ----- moon, north pole, deep seas, deserted island, the holy land or back to a place from your childhood, somewhere else? – and why.

In 2004 I went to Ireland with my family – a lifelong dream. I didn’t want to leave, and I’ve wanted to go back ever since. I especially want to revisit the Seisiun they hold Thursday nights at the Tír na nÓg pub in Cranny, County Clare, where the local farmers and their wives stand up, one by one, to sing (somehow they can all sing), or recite a poem, or dance a jig. That’s my new definition of a perfect evening.

That trip put an appetite for travel in me I’d never had before. Now I find I want to visit other places, like Paris, and Tuscany, and the Holy Land. For some reason I also want to visit the Hagia Sophia in Istanbul, and I’d love to see Machu Pichu in Peru— though how I’d get there I have no idea, since I’m scared of heights. I recently watched—and loved—The Painted Veil, and now I want to see whatever part of China I glimpsed in that film.

Oh— I’d also love to fly into outer space, and dive to the bottom of the sea.



Favorite season and why?

Autumn. I love that first gust of cool air on my skin, and the impulse to buy new pencils. I love the geese flying overhead, and the wind brushing through the trees at night, and the clouds rushing past the moon. I love the leaves. The sugar maple outside my window turns the most amazing golden color, and when the morning sun washes over, it splashes this intoxicating amber light into every corner of my bedroom.

Thanks, Kathleen. Delighted that you stopped by.

Happy weekend everyone!

Scribbles and Scrambles - Deja Vu to You, Too.

I listen to other people’s conversations. Not to pry -- just simple curiosity -- always seeking a creative twist in story telling and/or material.

I never use listening devices. If someone is loud enough, I’ll turn my ear their direction in case there’s a story brewing. People watching. Yeah, that’s it, harmless character gleaning.

While waiting in line at the video store the other day, I observed a man engaged in a discussion with the clerk. “What do you mean I have late fees?”

Clicking away on the keyboard, the clerk pulled up his file. “Yes, from June 2nd.”

“No.” He started naming movies and holding up fingers. “I rented three and returned them. After that, I rented Déjà Vu, but I know I returned it on time.”

My inner giggler picked up on that and I started a silent chuckle. Finally I had to bite my lip to keep from blurting something like. “Been there, done that, eh?” or “I want to rent Déjà Vu how much does it go for? Oh, never mind, I got it last month.”

But I’ve learned – call it déjà vu if you will – that what seemed terribly quippy or clever in my mind – usually invites an open-mouthed stare once I share it.

That’s why I blog. Because I can imagine you all laugh at my witty posts rather than scratch your head and mutter.

Serials and Scenarios - To Dance in the Desert

Newcomer Kathleen Popa is making a splash in Christian literature. Her novel review is below. Make sure to check out other reviews by clicking on the book cover. And go visit her website. Her Dregs interview is Friday 7-27

My Review:

Kathleen Popa's debut novel blends a heart-twistingly beautiful tale of human frailties and ugliness with the love of God working through broken characters.

From the rigid Bible professor who has God all figured out and bullet-pointed directions for anyone else who might need help, to the inner whisper that tells Dara that she is sought by God -- this story is full of forgiveness and renewal.

Love blows through the narrative like a wind across a desert, lifting, shifting and rearranging thoughts and raising questions.

Grace abounds and amazing reconciliations and understandings bloom into joy.

The characters reached in and grabbed my heart, leaving shadows of subtle influence behind.

After an initial struggle to ease into Kathleen's rhythm and voice, I caught the nuances and rode it to the solid conclusion.

A sensitivity alert, also, as this novel contains grittiness that may be too intense for those looking for a simple escapist read.

Serials and Scenarios - Shreds from Eric Wilson

If you don't want to get sucked into Eric's novels do not read the rest of this post. He gives some great answers, with some supreme writing samplers...thanks for playing in the dregs, Eric.


If you could ask any person, living or dead, a random question -- what question would you ask of whom?

Assuming the dead could speak, I’d love to ask Einstein why he wore his hair like that. I mean, come on--you’re a genius, admired by millions, and yet you have this image to overcome. You look like a bit deranged. A simple comb could’ve solved everything.


If you could change something in any novel, what would you change about it and why?

I love the Barbara Kingsolver novel, “The Poisonwood Bible.” It shows the destruction brought about by dogmatic religion, as opposed to the reality of a relationship with Jesus. My only complaint is that each of the story’s four missionary daughters (told in distinct and masterful voices) turn their backs on their childhood beliefs. I wish Barbara would’ve shown the balance, using one of the daughters as an example of coming to terms with the past and learning from it.


Favorite turn of phrase or word picture, in literature or movie.

In the Jim Cavaziel version of “The Count of Monte Cristo,” there’s a scene that is so simple, yet so powerful. After years of serving an unjust prison sentence, he tells his mentor: “I don’t believe in God anymore.” “That’s okay,” his mentor responds, “God still believes in you.”


If you were assured of writing a best-seller, what genre would it be? Give us a sliver of information, a characteristic or glimpse of a scene.

I hope to write a spiritual memoir someday, titled, “Finger in the Sky: One Man’s Struggle to Know the God of the Bible,” referring to two different fingers I’ve raised in my life—and the lessons I’ve learned from those experiences, good and bad, a work in progress. Here’s what I’ve written so far:

Oh, this is just beautiful, God!
In November 1985 I got the call that my uncle had committed suicide. He’d funneled the exhaust from the tailpipe into the cockpit of his Dodge Rambler, then climbed behind the steering wheel and smoked a joint while the engine’s fumes sucked the life from his body.
He did it for the sake of others, his letter claimed.
People who try to fit death and suicide into tidy little religious boxes really have no clue. My uncle, years before, had become a follower of Jesus. He read his Bible, met with other believers, prayed and put on his shiny church face.
He’d been saved, baptized, redeemed and sanctified.
So why, he wondered, did he still want to have women half his age? Was he beyond even God’s help? Was he one sick puppy?
After years of failure, despite the presence of competent spiritual counselors in his life, he found a way to end the sin raging through his limbs.
Call it selfish, call it the unforgivable sin, call it what you will…
He believed death was his friend in those final moments.

~~

“Honey,” my mother said, “there’s something I need to tell you.”
The call found me in Vienna, Austria. The next morning I would be going into communist Romania with medical supplies, children’s clothes, and hundreds of smuggled Bibles.
I’d graduated from high school six months earlier. My best friend and I had saved up money for a trip to Europe. I’d worked late hours as a Domino’s Pizza delivery driver, scarred my arms loading sharp blankets of sheet metal in a factory, and frozen my fingers to the bone washing FedEx vans in a windswept lot on the west side of Eugene. We were idealists, with Jesus in our hearts and spiritual activism strapped to our belts like loaded guns.
My throat clenched as my mother spoke. I knew my life was about to take a turn. I heard it in her voice; I sensed it in my gut.
“Go ahead,” I said.
“Uncle John,” she said, “is dead.”
All that stuff about denial, about how you go into emotional shock to deal with pain, must be crap. Before she could say another word, I had tears streaming down my face. The fact of his death was the worst of it, but the fact that I couldn’t share in the grief with the rest of my family was no picnic either.
En route to Romania, the rutted road through Yugoslavia shook the tears from my head the way a dog might shake the life from a captured rodent. I was helpless. I loved my uncle, and I would never see him again.
Not in this life anyway. And I don’t know about the next.
Of course the loss of a loved one can be a huge stone plunging into the heart of a family, rippling for years across the family’s otherwise calm surface. His decision triggered other things, good and bad, in the Wilson clan. Our reactions ranged all over the place.
On my end, stuck halfway across the globe in sub-zero Romanian temperatures, grief and despair turned into a stronger spiritual commitment which served to mask my deepest doubts and questions. People were dying in this battle between darkness and light--people like my uncle, victims of sin’s strangehold--and God needed my help to fight the good fight.
As long as I kept swinging my sword, I wouldn’t have to think about the wounds piercing my own soul.
Just keep swinging, I told myself. Keep swinging.


What makes you feel alive?

Air, hot showers, hiking in the mountains, good books, firm mattresses, playing basketball…oh, and my wife’s unbelievable kisses!


Where would you most like to travel and why.

Some remote island in the Caribbean, a place my wife and I could have to ourselves for, oh, a month or two. We would read, write, swim, sunbath, eat, drink yummy beach drinks, and have a second honeymoon. We’ve been dreaming of it for a long time. We love to be with each other, but our attentions are diverted and distracted most of the time.


Anything you’d do but don’t because of fear of pain? What is it? Ex. Bungee jumping, sky diving, running with scissors.

Oh, man, I would love to dive off a hundred foot cliff, or bungee cord jump off a five-hundred-foot bridge, or skydive from ten thousand feet. I guess I have a thing about heights. I still have dreams that I can fly--that sense of freedom, soaring, weightlessness. One day we’ll get that feeling, caught up in the air with the Lord, but for now I’m scared to death of heights. I try to be manly, though, and face my fears. I’ll be one of those eighty year olds who goes bungee jumping for kicks (or to straighten out my gnarled limbs!).


Grammatical pet peeve…sound off.

When I speak, I’m not as precise as when I write. In fact, I throw in slang, dangling participles, all that stuff. The one that annoys me, though, is when someone says, “Do you wanna come to the store with Johnny and I?” No. It sounds right, but it’s not. “Johnny and me,” I want to bark back. If I say, ‘Come on over and have dinner with me and Carolyn,” someone is bound to pipe up with smug satisfaction and make the correction, “Carolyn and I.” Does that bug you? I, too. LOL


Societal pet peeve…sound off.

Yeah, this one is easy. Cell phones are like a plague: people driving under the influence of cell phones, talking loudly in public places, holding up the line while finishing a conversation, even gabbing on their cell while talking to you on their landline. Stop. Enough. Agggh.


CREATIVE CORNER:

Pick one of the “story starters” below and give us a sample of your voice.

Lauren stared at the clock. Eleven forty-five. Oh, if only it read ten forty-five. Everyone should be allowed one do-over hour in life.

And why not? Lauren wondered. If golfers were allowed mulligans, if kids on the playground were allowed take-backs, then adults dealing with serious issues should be allowed a second chance. Especially when it came to marriage.

“You ready to get ‘er done?” Darrell asked, touching Lauren’s shoulder.

She turned, felt the weight of the wedding veil on her head. His words blew across her coals of tension, rekindling a dull glow of anger. She raised an eyebrow. “Get ‘er done? Honey, you’re not even supposed to see me. Not yet.”

“That’s just silly tradition. Anyway, you look incredible.”

“Thanks.”

“Maybe we should skip the ceremony, save some money, and boogie on outta here.”

“To get ‘er done?”

“Now you’re talkin’!” Darrell winked.

For one second, with his right eye closed, he was reduced to half his charm. Lauren had melted into those deep blue eyes when they first met, fallen prey to his playful humor and old-fashioned manners. Now that The Big Day was here, Darrell was strutting around like a conquering hero. Like he had her right where he wanted. Like she was his for the taking.

“No, we’re done talking,” Lauren whispered.