Tuesday, December 4, 2012

Just More Words



Over the last few years I have discovered that writing is addictive. And if one has to be addicted then writing is my choice of drug. “Broken Crosses” has been available on Amazon for just a couple of weeks. I do have an edited version that I am slowly working on after my dear daughter pointed out several typos that I overlooked on the final walk-thru. And I believe I have also finally found a cover that I like (see upper left hand corner), your opinions are valued so please let me know what you think.
I finished “Broken Crosses” very early on Thanksgiving morning. Surprisingly writing can be exhausting and crossing the finish line can have the same physical outcome as accomplishing the same in a road race. With completion comes exhilaration and anticipation of rest and relaxation. I slept better those few hours before Thanksgiving morning than I had in months. What surprises me now is how quickly the desire to write more returned. I told you it is addicting. For me there is a rush in creating with words. I do remind myself that they are just more words until someone reads them.
When the idea for “Broken Crosses” first bubbled up in my overly crowded cranium I was working (actually struggling is a better description) on the second book in a series about the Goode Family. The characters in “Broken Crosses”, Scott Kelso, his son and daughter, the nurse Anna, all began to grow almost before a single word was put on paper, so it was with little hesitation or regret that I set aside the series book.
But now the Goode Family is calling me again and I have started dusting off the words and breathing life back into the characters. “The Wooden Box” first introduced the world to the Goode family, below is an excerpt for your entertainment...enjoy
I was eight years old when Momma first allowed me to go to the Spit by myself. The unnamed fishing hole soon became my favorite hangout, even when there were no fish to be found. An eight year old can always find something to do even when there is nothing to do it with. That spring I had decided that I wanted to try fly fishing in the inlet. I had watched my father fly fish on the Russian River the prior spring. He had let me try it a few times that day, but the hours for fishing were short and he didn’t want to lose them while teaching me. He surprised me about a week later after we had returned to Homer by giving me my own fly rod. When he found time he would teach me to cast and how to tie my own flies. I practiced a lot by myself because Daddy worked so much. Before long I could perform a pretty decent two-handed spey cast. I was swinging my own flies before summer went away that year. Daddy spotted me one day practicing at the small pond on our property. He told me he believed I may have better a two-hand cast than he had, but the real test would come when I was fishing waters that actually had fish in it.

I sat out early that morning to head down to the fishing hole. The sun had just come up and it was still cold enough to see your own breath. There was still snow on the untraveled grounds. To get from the road down to the fishing spot you had to descend a pretty steep bank. That morning there was still snow and ice on the steep bank so I sat down on my butt and slid down, digging my heals in the dirt as I approached the water. Explaining to Momma how I got wet if I happened to end up in the freezing water was not something I wanted to do.

Fishing was slow that morning. It gave me plenty of opportunity to practice my casting. As the morning wore on I wanted to practice my catching. My young arms were starting to get pretty tired. I was never very big growing up and my fly rod was twice as long as I was tall. Casting over and over put strain on the muscles in my arms and my back. I was just about to take a break when I saw the backs of what must have been a million salmon as they crested the water. I jumped back up and grabbed my pole, and then with all the strength I had left in those scrawny eight year old arms I swept the line just above the water and watched as my fly landed with perfect presentation.

The spawning salmon are not really looking for a meal. But if you can irritate them with a fly in their face they are likely to bite at it. Well I made one really mad! I saw her mouth open and then close with lightning speed around my fly. The tip of my rod dove straight down towards the cold water almost bending the pole in half as the salmon turned, heading back out into the inlet. My fly reel began to sing like a fat opera lady as the salmon reeled off the line. The rate of my heart increased to about a million beats per minute. (A million fish and a million beats per minute, when I was eight years old there was only a “few” or a “million”, not much in between).

Then I made the biggest fishing mistake of my young life. I knew that I was supposed to let her play out the line, let her fight for a while.  “She’ll get tired”, my Dad would have said, “Don’t you get tired first. You’ll make mistakes if you do.”

I pulled up with all my might. Just as I did I felt the hook let go. I don’t know if she spit it out or if I just pulled to hard, but either way the sharp hook on that hand tied spey- fly flew right back the way it had come. I wasn’t fast enough to avoid the barbed hooked entering my cheek just below my left eye. The air was cold that day, even more so down by the water where the wind never stops blowing, and the freezing cold air had numbed my face. At first I thought the fly had just smacked me in the face. It hurt like the dickens. If you have never had your near frozen skin smacked then you can’t know the burning pain that is experienced, so take my word, it hurts! As my vision came back into focus I could see the fine strands of the rabbit hair I had used when tying the fly sticking up in my lower vision. I reached up and lightly touched the soft area below my eye, feeling for the hilt of the fly. My fingers found the fly and lightly pulled. The pain was incredible and I knew then that the hook had sunk in deep. Up to that moment I hadn’t cried, but then the tears came on full force. I probably would have sat there on my butt crying until someone came along if my own imagination hadn’t snapped me out of it. I began to wonder if the tears were pouring out of the new hole in my face made by the sharp hook. As my mind’s eye developed this picture I started to laugh, first quietly then out loud.

My laughter didn’t make the pain go away but the tears stopped as quickly as they had started. I wondered what my Dad would have said about me crying like a bumbling baby. I can’t remember Dad ever shedding a tear. His often-stated opinion was, “If you can grow face whiskers then you’re not built to cry.” Never mind that the faces of most boys my age were still as smooth as a skippin’ rock. But he wasn’t there to see my tears and I never told him about the crying part of this story. As far as I know, neither did Old Jacob.

You can own this e-book by following the link on this page.

Sunday, December 2, 2012

Here I am...



After Saul’s life changing experience on the road to Damascus God knew that his outward appearance as witnessed by others did not change with the inward miracle of accepting Christ as his savior. In other words, those that knew Saul would not believe that this most unlikely man had been chosen by God to bring the message of hope entire world. Saul was a persecutor of those that followed Christ, those that belonged to the Way. Saul destroyed hope, he didn’t provide it! With zealous authority Saul entered the homes of Christians, placing them under arrest and locking them behind the bars of prison. If they died on the way to prison or died in prison it made no difference to this hardened Pharisee.
But God’s perfect plan included Saul of Tarsus. Why? Surely of all the believers in Jerusalem and the surrounding area, thousands by the time Saul walked down the Damascus Road, there was someone better fitted for the job as evangelist than Saul. Yet God chose him. Thousands of believers or Saul?
Maybe it is because of all the Christians whose path Saul crossed, not one of them witnessed to him. No one said to Saul. “Let me tell you about this man named Jesus.” None invited him into their home or their circle or their church and said, “Welcome brother, sit down and eat. After we eat I will tell you how a man named Jesus saved my life.” None said this because they feared Saul of Tarsus. Afraid they would be thrown in prison at the very name of Jesus. They feared for their lives, so they said not a word.
On the road to Damascus when a great light shone, a light like the Shekinah Glory, blinding Saul, causing him to fall to his knees, and then the voice that belonged to Jesus Christ filled his head, do you think Saul was afraid? Do you think for maybe just a moment he feared for his life? If he did, when that moment passed he said to the Christ, “What shall I do, Lord?”
How different history would be if just one early follower of Jesus had prayed, “About this man Saul, What shall I do, Lord?
As sightless Saul was lead down the road to Damascus another man waited. His name was Ananias. Now Ananias had heard of the stories of Saul’s terror. He had also heard that this Pharisee who hated Christians was in route to Damascus, granted the authority to deliver followers of Christ to Jerusalem to be placed in prison. And then God’s plan for Ananias began to unfold when the Lord called his name.
And he said, “Hear I am. Lord.”
Do you know a “Saul” today, someone so unlikely to come to Christ? Have you thought, “Maybe one day he or she will change, and then maybe they will listen to the good news of salvation...it’s free!” But until then if you see them walking down the street you cross over to the other side. Maybe you say a little prayer for them, or maybe not. Perhaps you think there is no room in heaven for such a person as this.
Dear friend next time I see that person I hope not to cross the street. I hope to say “Hear I am, Lord. What shall I do?”

Random Thoughts

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