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My Great-Great-Grandfather Wrote on Barn Walls (or, Some Thoughts on Creativity, and the Cover of My Next Book)

I’m sitting at the small red table beside one of our large living room windows, looking out at James Street. There’s our porch, the wide sidewalk, the busy street. There is the sycamore tree, ancient and leaning, the leaves gently browning in this mid-autumn light. It is 50 degrees and the sun is shining, shining, shining, as if summer is still within its grasp.

My book, Once We Were Strangers, released only last week, but I am in the thick of editing my next novel, one that releases in July of 2019. I can tell you now that it’s called Light from Distant Stars, and it’s the most challenging story I’ve ever tried to write. It is a standalone novel for grownups, not connected with my YA novel The Day the Angels Fell. But I have lots of time to tell you more about that.

What I want to tell you today, or share with you I guess, is the fact that even in the writing of this current book, in working through the edits, I am assailed by voices of self-doubt and questions about my ability to write well. There has been no magic turning point, at least not for me, where I have woken up self-confident and swaggering, convinced that I am finally the writer I have always wanted to be. Not when I co-wrote my first book and saw it in Barnes and Noble in 2008. Not when I signed a contract with my first agent, or landed a book contract, or when The Day the Angels Fell won an award.

And yet. There has been something magical about the last few weeks, a kind of turning point. I have experienced a peace in who I am, in what I write, in the words that I share – no matter the sales numbers, no matter the Amazon rank, no matter the mentions or shares or high-profile praise (or lack thereof). I am determined to enjoy each of my writing days, to work hard at getting better, to read more widely, and to sink deep, deep, deep into the stories I am creating. God is there, somewhere, waiting for me.

I know now that there is no Promised Land in the distance where, once there, I will have arrived – this creative life is nothing but a journey, nothing but one more word, one more sentence, one more chapter, and one more story.

This is what I offer you today, in whatever creative pursuits you are digging into: give yourself the freedom to chase excellence, to go after whatever creative thing is calling your name. Don’t be afraid, and when you are, let it fill you with exhilaration at the risks you are taking. Keep going. Keep moving. Keep breathing. Be present, really present, wherever you are.

This isn’t just for writing – it’s for painting and photography and starting a business and running for office. It’s for when you become a parent or get married or take a trip or start a church. Keep going. Keep moving. Keep breathing.

Anyway, these are my thoughts today, looking out the window onto James Street, watching the traffic go by, pondering a sycamore tree that was probably planted when my great-great-grandfather was a boy – the same man who used to write on the walls of his barn, stories and news and thoughts about life. That is all I am really doing here. That is all any of us are doing.

And here is the cover of my next novel, in case you were interested.

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On Being Invited to Mohammad’s House After the Passing of His Father

The book I wrote with my friend Mohammad, about his family’s journey to the US from Syria as refugees and then the journey of our friendship, has released! It’s called Once We Were Strangers. You can check it out HERE.

“Mohammad,” I said. “I’m sorry I missed your call.” It was Sunday afternoon, and we were driving home from church. The kids were chattering or arguing or quoting Jumanji 2 for the millionth time. The radio was too loud. I turned it off.

“Shawn!” he said, in that voice he always uses to answer his phone, that voice that makes it sound like he has been waiting a million years for me to call him. “I tried to call you. How are you?”

“We’re good,” I said. “We’re good. Is everything okay?” I had noticed he had tried to call me twice in a row, something he has not done before. He grew silent for a moment, and he didn’t seem to know how to proceed.

“My mother called from Syria. My father died.”

“Oh, Mohammad. I’m so sorry.” I knew his father had been ill for a long time, but when we last spoke of him, he had been doing better.

“Yes,” he said, his voice suddenly hoarse. “Yes. Can you come to my house today? I am having friends over, since my father died.”

“Of course. What time?”

“1:00. 1:30?”

“I’ll be there.”

* * * * *

I pulled onto his street where he lives in the southwest section of our city. Normally, the sidewalk in front of his house is not lined with cars, but on Sunday at 1:30 I had to drive further along to find a parking space. I got out, walked towards his house, and saw a group of seven or eight Middle Eastern men standing in his small front yard, smoking. I walked up, and they introduced themselves in broken English, then went on chatting to each other in Arabic. As more men arrived, they made their way around the circle, greeting each person. Some of the men kissed each other on each cheek.

“Where are these men from?” I asked Mohammad as they chatted.

“Dara’a, Dara’a, Damascus, Aleppo,” he said, pointing, making his way around the circle. They smiled kindly at me. They laughed to each other, joking quietly. Soon there were fifteen or twenty men there. Mohammad’s brother-in-law, a young man around 20 years old, came outside with a pot of coffee and a tiny cup, smaller than a shot glass. He moved around the circle, one man at a time, pouring a mouthful of strong, black coffee, and offering that tiny glass. Each man drank the scalding coffee like a shot. He came to me, smiling. We had met before. I took the tiny mug and drank it down.

* * * * *

Soon the men filed in, still chatting somberly in Arabic. We came to the doorway, and everyone took their shoes off on the stoop. Muslim men are particularly talented at this–it may not sound like much, but taking off your shoes so that they do not touch the inside of the house and so that your feet do not touch the outside sidewalk takes some forethought. You have to arrange your shoes so they will slip off, step inside with your stockinged foot, shake off the second shoe outside, and go in. I remembered doing this in Istanbul, when we went into a mosque.

There, we sat quietly on the sofas and chairs, waiting. Mohammad’s boys, who had been strangely absent, appeared with two purple plastic covers, spread one in the living room and one in the dining room, on the floor. These were the tables. They came in again making many trips, bringing all the food, the drinks, and the plates for everyone. When everything was ready, we moved cross-legged to the floor.

I waited, watched, tried to avoid making any foolish missteps. The man to my left gestured for me to fill my plate, so I took a scoop of rice and a few round things that looked like potatoes but were actually fried meal filled with meat. I didn’t want to take too much food. The man to my left smiled at me, abruptly took my plate and added two more huge scoops of rice, a few more of the potato thingies, and a massive piece of meat still on the bone. The plastic plate now bent to nearly breaking. He handed it back to me with an Arabic sentence that seemed to be something along the lines of, “There. That’s better.”

The men began eating, and I followed hesitantly behind, watching them. Someone said something in Arabic, and a few of the men chuckled. But an older man, sitting at the opposite side of our table, smiled kindly at me and said, “No, no, he’s just watching us. He doesn’t know how to eat like we do, so he is watching. This is good.”

* * * * *

After the meal, we washed our hands and got back up into our chairs. They spoke quietly in Arabic. I could not understand a single word, but it struck me that there is something of the lament in the sound of Arabic, the way it strikes the ear, the way it curls through the air. It is a language that sounds sad to me. Maybe it’s just because of that particular setting, but it seemed to serve them well, and I could have gone on listening to the sound of it for a long time.

I started talking to the man beside me. He has been in the US for 20 years. When he took his citizen’s test, it was just after 9/11.

“The woman asked me if I wanted to change my name,” he said with a smile. He shrugged. “I didn’t mind. I thought it might be a good idea. There was so much anti-Muslim sentiment in those days. My given name is Abdul-Haran. I went by Haran. She asked me what I wanted my name to be. I didn’t know. She asked me if I liked Bob, or Johnny, or Jim. I said, ‘How about John?’ So, that’s my name.”

I marveled at the easy way he talked about exchanging his name for a new one. I looked around the circle at these men, all of them refugees. None of them grew up wanting to leave their homes. Most of them left friends and family behind. Yet there they were in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, working hard, making a living, raising families.

“I think I’ll call you Haran,” I said, smiling. He laughed.

* * * * *

We sat for an hour after the meal, and besides my conversation with Haran and a few tidbits from Mohammad, not an English word was spoken. It was one of the most poignant cultural experiences of my life. I looked over at Mohammad’s boys–they can speak Arabic, but they cannot write it. They never learned it. I imagine that their own children, one more generation removed, might not see the value in learning Arabic.

* * * * *

One of the men got up to leave. He stood at the door and held out his hands, palms up, and chanted out a prayer in Arabic. The men stopped in the middle of their conversations, some closing their eyes, some also holding out their hands. Then he smiled and walked out. This happened a few more times. I asked Mohammad what the men said.

“They are saying prayers for my father,” he said, staring at the carpet in front of him, his dark eyes seeing things from long ago, far away.

In the corner, two of the men work prayer beads through their fingers, one bead after the other, one after the other, for the entire hour.

* * * * *

Finally, it was time to leave. Everyone decided to do this at once, without discussing it. I stood and put on my coat. One of the men came over to where Mohammad and I stood. He said a long prayer with Mohammad, and Mohammad seemed close to tears. The man had a very kind voice, deep brown eyes, and was the only man there with a beard. Then, the man turned to me. Mohammad introduced us.

“This is our imam from the local Islamic center,” he said. The man looked at me and shook my hand with both of his. He had a gentleness about him that was disarming.

“I’m Shawn,” I said.

“Thank you very much for being here,” he said, and there was such a depth to his thanks. “Thank you very much for coming.”

He turned and walked out. I followed the men into the cool day. The sun was shining.

The book I wrote about my friendship with Mohammad is now available, Once We Were Strangers. You can check it out HERE.

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Three Books You Should Know About

Friends, there are three amazing books coming out today that I have to tell you about.

The first is one of my absolute favorite co-writing projects, Reload Love. I went to Iraq with author Lenya Heitzig almost 18 months ago to see the work her organization does helping children impacted by terror. It was an incredible, life-changing trip that I wrote about HERE. Here’s a summary of what the book is about:

This is the story of one woman who refused to look away from atrocities on her television screen. Lenya Heitzig allowed her heart to break at the plight of refugees and the deaths of innocent children, and then she begged God for a job to do.

In this gritty, passionate story, Lenya details the epic way God answered her prayers—how a spark came to life turning weapons of war into something beautiful. Experience the hope found in a children’s playground as you journey with her through the jungles of Burma and the war-torn streets of the Middle East.

* * * * *

The second is a book written by a writer friend who knows more about books than anyone else I know. Anne Bogel has an incredible podcast (What Should I Read Next), an amazing blog (Modern Mrs. Darcy), and now she’s gifted us reader-mortals with the best thoughts on books. It’s called, I’d Rather Be Reading. I received an advanced copy, and it’s such a fun, informative read. Here’s the skinny:

In this collection of charming and relatable reflections on the reading life, beloved blogger and author Anne Bogel leads readers to remember the book that first hooked them, the place where they first fell in love with reading, and all of the moments afterward that helped make them the reader they are today.

* * * * *

Finally, Karen Swallow Prior’s highly anticipated On Reading Well also releases today! I haven’t read it yet, but it’s waiting for me on my bedside table.

Acclaimed author Karen Swallow Prior takes readers on a guided tour through works of great literature both ancient and modern, exploring twelve virtues that philosophers and theologians throughout history have identified as most essential for good character and the good life.

* * * * *

Pick up one or all of these amazing titles. It’s a great day for books! Oh, and by the way. The Day the Angels Fell, my first novel, is only $1.99 in digital format today! Get it here and tell your friends:

Kindle:
Nook:

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We Drove Out to Where I Grew Up and Found Our Fortune

Lucy and I drove out of the city, east on New Holland Ave and through the traffic lights to the outskirts, where we merged onto the highway. A few exits later, we got off, kept heading east, and soon the pavement and houses gave way to farmers’ fields, long stretches of corn and soybeans, and tobacco already cut and leaning in golden pyramids.

“These are the roads I grew up on,” I said quietly. “These are the miles where I rode my bike.” Lucy looked out over it all.

“It’s very pretty out here,” she said. She is a city girl now. She seems overwhelmed by the serenity of the countryside.

We turned onto the road that led to the farm where I grew up, the farm that sits across from the church and a graveyard and a winding creek (all of which are the backdrop to my first novel, The Day the Angels Fell). The road curved up towards the intermediate school I attended as a teen. We pulled into my uncle and aunt’s driveway and got out.

My uncle came over, joking that he was going to start charging me – it was the second time I’d been there in two weeks, an unusual occurrence. I told him, on the contrary, I thought he should give me frequent flyer miles. Lucy and I hugged him and then walked into the green green grass of their large backyard – the very place Maile and I had gotten married a little over 19 years ago.

We were there to see my dear cousin, visiting from Austin, Texas. And other family members trickled in as they could. Another uncle. Another aunt. Seven or eight cousins. One of my sisters. We sat and we laughed and we told all the old stories and listened to the new ones, knowing that a few of these were the epic tales we would retell the next time we saw each other.

There was only a small portion of us there on Wednesday night – my dad has seven brothers and sisters, and I think I have around 25 cousins on that side, most of whom are now married with kids of their own. But wherever two or three are gathered, you know, and all that.

At one point the sun was setting over the fields and a cool breeze was trying miserably to push away the heat, and I stood against the wooden rails of my uncle and aunt’s gazebo. Right there, Maile and I had said, “I do,” and all of these family members and more had been there with us, witnesses. They had seen us tie the knot. They had welcomed us home when we came back, tails between our legs, a failed business behind us. They had supported my new life as a writer, buying my books, giving me projects. They had celebrated with us as each of children were born, and they mourned with us when Maile miscarried a few days before Grandma Smucker’s funeral.

Lucy came over and stood beside me, grinning.

“What do you think of your wild extended Smucker family?” I said, taking a drink of ice water. She smiled again.

“It’s good.”

I nodded, looking out over the crowd. There are a lot of old aches and pains there, and fresh ones, too. My uncle nearly died in a motorcycle crash some years back, and his walk with its slight limp reminds me of this. Another uncle lost most of his pinky 25 years ago; of course, he just holds it up to his nostril now, scaring all the grandchildren, because it looks like his pinky is all the way up in his brain. Over 40 years ago tragedy took the life of one of my cousins before I was born, and that pain is mostly healed, but ever present. My grandmother died six years ago this fall. There is other deep sadness in our midst, some I’ve heard and some I’ll probably never know about, and struggles that would break my heart.

But there is happiness there, too, and so many years together. There are the new babies bounced on knees and the teenagers finding their way and my cousins now in their thirties and forties and dare I say fifties. Life goes on, and when I am there, among the fields where I grew up, I can feel my roots digging in, drawing from deep, deep wells.

“It is good,” I said, putting my arm around Lucy. “It’s a wealth beyond measure.”

Photo by Caleb Minear via Unsplash
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Has Revisiting a Place Full of Good Memories Ever Made You Sad?

The washed out ruts in the lane were so deep we could barely drive through, even in our beastly Suburban. The truck swayed and groaned, but we made it to the first turn, parked, and got out. But even harder to work through were the memories, hanging from the trees like Spanish moss.

The August day was warm but not overbearing, and we hiked along an overgrown path, carrying our things: a tent, sleeping bags, food. We cleared a space in the trees, built a ring of rocks for our fire, pitched the tent. Sam ran off to “hunt” while Abra and I cleared up the campsite, set up our chairs, and hunted for walking sticks.

When Sam came back, the three of us walked back out to the stone lane and down the hill towards the house. There, off in the trees, was where I had first learned to tap maple trees for sap. There, buried under vines and thorns, was the massive oak tree that fell the year we lived here. There, just off the lane, was where the buck had walked beside me one day when I came back in with the mail.

We lived in that cabin in the woods for 14 months in 2013 and 2014, five years ago. Before Leo. Before Poppy. It was a quiet time of life, when we lived 45 minutes from our closest friends and family, 20 minutes from the grocery store. When I worked every day in small second-floor office and the girls slept in the basement and I spent late summer days cutting down dead trees and splitting the wood, preparing for winter.

It was a beautiful, wonderful time. So why, walking down the lane with our two middle children, did I feel such a weight of sadness, such a deep-reaching sense of melancholy?

* * * * *

We walked down behind the cabin, then back up the far hill, following the sweeping path into the woods and around a long circle, back to where we started. We ate hot dogs cooked over the fire and gooey smores and shared a gallon jug of water. Soon, the light was fading, the sun setting somewhere in the west. We sat in our chairs and watched the fire lick the air. We told old stories of when we used to live in that cabin. A blanket of smoke from the wet wood hung around us.

We made our way into the tent, me in the middle sleeping bag, and I read them the first few chapters from The Book of Three. Taran’s pig ran into the woods, and we closed the book, and the woods grew dark. But then the moon rose, so bright it cast tree shadows onto the roof of our tent, and we fell asleep early with dogs barking far in the distance.

* * * * *

What is it about going back to good places that brings sadness to the surface? Is it simply a longing for good times past? Is it the sneaking realization that the rest of life will go just as fast?

For me, I think it was the feeling that those woods, that lane, that cabin, they didn’t remember us. We were strangers there, in a place where we had once been so intimate. And it made me realize that someday all the places I love will not remember me.

But in the midst of this sadness was another realization – today is everything. Today is all we have. I have to hug my children while I can, read to them while I’m able, make memories in these current places so that someday they can come back, they can relive the old days, and they can be reminded that time is fleeting.

This is the gift of time, the gift of memories, the gift of revisiting places that hold meaning for us.

These are my two camping buddies getting ready to head off on their first day of school.
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When He was Still a Long Way Off

I sat on the porch in the afternoon and the air was heavy and the sun glared off the barber shop glass. Only a few people walked by, and those who did were weighed down by August. It’s a sullen month, a reluctant month. Even the cars eased their way through the heat, sweating, sighing. I stood and paced, sat back down, stood up and leaned over the iron rails, peered down the street as far as I could see. I sat back down.

My oldest son was coming home from high school, the kid who first made me a dad. My wife has homeschooled him for the last ten years, and it was his first day in public school since kindergarten.

The words from the parable of the prodigal son came to me, dropping into my mind from some long-ago Sunday School class: “When he was still a long way off, his father saw him…” I have never thought of it before, but I wonder now, if the father was in the habit of watching for the arrival of his youngest son. I wonder if he knew the highest points of his property and if he wandered to those places late in the day, staring far off down the road, looking for the old familiar gait, the way his son walked with his head down, the way he swung his arms. I wonder if the father watched until the sun set, and even after that, when he couldn’t see through the dark but would only stand there, staring.

I know I would. I would wait until morning, and then again, and then again. A father’s love for a son is a fierce, aching thing.

And there is God, always waiting for us, merciful, gracious, hoping for our return. If not today, someday. If not at this time, sometime.

* * * * *

While he was still a long way off, I saw him, his lime green shirt, his wild hair, his long, thin, newly-grown-up body that no longer fits in his twin bed. I hopped down the porch stairs, skipping a step, suddenly light, suddenly forgetting August. I walked fast over the cracked cement, the back alley that cuts our block in two, and there he was, crossing Queen, and when I met him I wrapped him in a bear hug, pushed him away, looked into his face, clapped him on the shoulder.

“Look at you,” I said, staring into his face, because he was different, grown, no longer mine, not entirely. We raise these children as best we can, and at some point we send them into the world a gift, taking, we hope, the best of us with them. There is a letting go, and if we don’t allow it to happen, our fingers will tear them, bruise them in the holding. But when we do let them go, what a marvelous and terrible departure! You won’t see another thing like it.

“Look at you,” I said again, laughing out loud.

He grinned a goofy grin, bashful. “Hey, Dad.”

“I’m proud of you,” I said. “I’m really proud of you.”

Will our children ever realize how long we would wait for them?