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How This Baby is Saving Me

A friend asked, in the days following my emergency trip to the hospital, if I thought the flare-up in my intestine could be a result of how busy I’ve been. Could the stress be getting to me? The numerous projects? The deadlines?

Of course, I deflected that idea. We are always in control, aren’t we? We are always sure that the alcohol is helping us to cope with life. We are always sure that the sugar is a harmless sidekick. We are always sure that the work and the busyness and the fast pace is something helping us to thrive.

Meanwhile, our minds and bodies, never meant to operate under such heavy burdens, begin to break down.

* * * * *

Maile wakes me between 4:30 and 5:45. She has been up with Leo a few times, and it’s my turn. I roll out of bed and carry him downstairs so she can get some uninterrupted sleep. The house is quiet, but if the windows are open I can hear the early-morning traffic going by on James Street. I sit in the dark living room, light from the hallway falling diagonally through the room, lighting up a few dirty diapers still on the coffee table, a few magic markers half-hidden under the sofa. The chess board is open, pieces strewn in mid-battle.

The light falls on Leo’s face, and I cannot work while I hold him, and I cannot make myself breakfast, and I cannot do anything besides look at his face and remind myself to breathe.

In…1…2…3…4.

Out…1…2…3…4.

In…1…2…3…4.

Out…1…2…3…4.

This baby has forced me to slow down, to sit quietly, to breathe. I chomp at the bit, wanting to run full force again into a day’s worth of work, but he tugs on the reins and holds me in check.

So we sit together, and he smiles in his sleep. A friend of mine on Facebook said that her mother used to say angels were whispering in a baby’s ear when they smile like that in their sleep. I find that easy to believe, on a quiet morning, when the light slants in that particular way, and the early-morning traffic is going by on James Street.

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And This is Why You Should Not Give Up

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Maile and I sat at a table outside the cafe, enjoying brunch together. The four oldest kids were at my parents’ house, and Leo sat quietly in his stroller, wearing his mustachifier (a pacifier with a huge mustache on it), gathering laughs from nearly everyone walking by.

It’s a rare moment these days, when the noise and busyness subsides and Maile and I can look at each other and really see.

“It’s hard to believe,” a kind old man said as he walked by, looking at Leo. “It’s hard to believe all of us were that small at one point.”

“Yes, it is,” I said. “It’s hard to believe.”

And more people walked by and Maile and I talked about life and writing and schooling the kids. We ate nice food and we sat quietly and the trees that lined the city street whispered in a cool breeze. Cars drove by. The sky, up above the tall brick buildings, was blue.

* * * * *

“I think I need to take a break from writing at my blog,” I had told Maile just the night before. With the projects I’m working on for other people, and with trying to finish up this novel by winter time, I just don’t know if I have time to write blog posts.”

It’s this sense of being stretched, and as time passes and the stretching continues, fabrics begin to tear in places. My ability to be a good father unravels a little. My ability to be a good husband frays a bit around the edges.

* * * * *

“Excuse me, are you Shawn Smucker?”

A young woman stopped beside the table where Maile and I were eating. She had two children with her. I recognized her face but couldn’t place her.

“Yes,” I said. “And you look very familiar.”

“You probably don’t know me,” she said. “But I read your blog.”

She smiled and told me her name. We had gone to the same college, and she was two years older than me. She asked us how we liked life in the city, and we found out that she lived not too far from us. She was very kind.

Then, before she walked away, she said something that had a big affect on me.

“I have to tell you, I find your blog very encouraging. My husband and I are on the edge of making a pretty big decision, and your posts about courage and trust have had a big impact on both of us.”

I was floored. Sometimes it feels like these words are dust thrown into the wind.

* * * * *

“So maybe you shouldn’t stop blogging?” Maile said after the young woman walked away.

* * * * *

I’m telling you this story for a few different reasons.

First of all, being recognized on the street was probably the highlight of my week.

Second, the blogs might flow a little thinner around here in the next month as I try to finish my novel and prepare for the Kickstarter campaign. Before that sidewalk conversation, I had planned on telling you today that you wouldn’t hear from me at all for the next month or two, but I guess her’s was the encouragement I needed to hear. (Also, if you want updates on the novel, you can like my Facebook page or subscribe to my newsletter in the right hand margin of this page.)

Finally, and most important of all, you need to be reminded that what you’re doing is making a difference. The stuff you’re writing, the time you’re spending with young people, the encouragement you give a friend, the evenings with your child, the long days taking care of an aging relative…the ripples are spreading out from the work that you’re doing, and the world (contrary to popular belief) is becoming a better place for it.

Keep doing. Keep being.

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I am a Christian Because of Owen Meany

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“I am doomed to remember a boy with a wrecked voice—not because of his voice, or because he was the smallest person I ever knew, or even because he was the instrument of my mother’s death, but because he is the reason I believe in God; I am a Christian because of Owen Meany.”

Sometimes I think I could say the same thing, that I am a Christian because of Owen Meany.

Today I’m over at SheLovesMagazine leading a discussion about what is perhaps my favorite book of all time, A Prayer For Owen Meany. You can read the rest of my post HERE.

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What My Daughter Said, and Why it Felt Like a Punch to the Gut

IMG_1423“You know,” Maile said, hesitantly, “I was talking with Abra last night when I was tucking her into bed.”

“Yeah?” I asked. “What did she say?”

“She said, ‘I don’t like it when Daddy brings his stupid screens into my room at night. He doesn’t even cuddle me or read to me anymore – he just looks at his computer.'”

Yes, that sound you heard was the wind getting knocked out of me.

* * * * *

I’ve been smack dab in the middle of the busiest season of my writing life – multiple projects coming to a close. Multiple exciting projects. Then, on top of that, I promised my children that I would publish the story I wrote for them by the end of the year. It’s relatively easy for me to compartmentalize my nonfiction work, keeping it corralled between the hours of 8 and 5.

But fiction is another animal for me.

Once I start, I can’t stop. I am notoriously poor at setting and keeping boundaries when I am in the middle of writing a novel – it creeps into the other hours of my life, the way a drop of red food coloring swirls and clouds quickly through clear water. A little extra time after dinner? Finish another chapter. A little time before bed? Revise that opening section. Just a minute kids. Wait a second. I’ll be right there.

So when Abra started needing someone to sit with her until she feel asleep – which, mind you, is a far from instantaneous process – I thought, here are 45 minutes I could be using to write. So I started taking my laptop up to her room, where I’d work until she fell asleep.

But little eyes and little hearts are very observant, and they watch, and they keep track of the things that we prioritize.

* * * * *

It’s easy to Facebook our victories, to Pin our beautiful lives. It’s fun to Tweet about the cute things my children say or to Instagram all of us in a big circle, hugging each other and acting like nothing bad ever happens. But the reality is that I am a parent made up of a bundle of mistakes and missteps, disappointments and shortcomings. The seven of us here in this house will disappoint each other and hurt each others’ feelings – hopefully we’re creating an environment where we can also talk about these things, and apologize, and forgive each other, and love each other well.

* * * * *

On Sunday morning at St. James Episcopal Church, Cade and Lucy came back to our pew after children’s church was over and just before communion was served.

“Where’s Abra?” I asked.

“She’s with Reverend Lauren,” Lucy said.

“Yeah,” Cade said, “she’s going to help Reverend Lauren with something.”

“Oh, okay,” I said, looking around but not seeing her.

Then I found her. She had been asked to help bring the gifts to the front of the church for communion, she in her little jean shorts and pink top, she with her short blond hair and big blue eyes. She walked solemnly in the procession. Then, after handing it off to the ministers at the front, she walked quickly around to the side, arms straight down at her side, a look of holy excitement on her face.

“Great job, Abra!” I said as she slid into the seat beside me. She wrapped her arms around my waist, and I wondered if she had been holding her breath the entire time.

* * * * *

“Abra was ready ere I called her name. And though I called another, Abra came.”

John Steinbeck, East of Eden

* * * * *

“Abra,” I said when I took her up to bed Sunday night. “I’m not going to bring any screens up here any more when I tuck you in, okay?”

She smiled. We read Cinderella, then turned out the lights. I lay beside her and she put her little arm up over my shoulders. And we both fell asleep.

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What I Learned From Taking Five Kids to the Park (or, Living in the Middle of Your Fear)

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The other day I took all five kids to the park by myself. I know. I deserve some kind of a medal. Lucy rode her bike around and around, Abra trailed behind on her little scooter, and Sam went from one thing to the next. Leo mostly chilled out in the stroller and vacillated between crying and sort-of-crying, so I kept pushing the stroller in circles and trying to get him to fall asleep.

Cade, though. Cade had his own little adventure.

There were three guys at the basketball court. Two in high school and another about Cade’s age. They asked if he wanted to play two-on-two. He had never played a pick-up game at the park before. He could have shrugged them off and said no. He could have kept shooting by himself at the other end of the court. I could tell he was afraid.

I was kind of afraid for him.

But he nodded.

“Sure,” he said.

* * * * *

The other night I exchanged a few long emails with my friend in Kelowna, British Columbia, as we often do. His name is Jason and he’s one of my best friends. We’ve known each other for almost twenty years, ever since he showed up during my sophomore year in college with his long blond hair and massive Bob Marley posters.

We were writing back and forth about this whole idea of fear, and he was encouraging me in regards to my novel, when he said something that really got my attention.

“The fearful place we often avoid has some integral part of us wanting to be heard, and it brings the greatest reward when we truly step (into that place)…Sometimes we get hurt, but that risk is a part of it.”

* * * * *

When I look back on some of the more disappointing times of my life, or the times that I find myself wondering “what if?”, those times have one thing in common – in some way I allowed fear to keep me from doing something.

On the other hand, the last five years of my life have been the most exhilarating, rewarding years I’ve ever had, and they’ve been years that I’ve lived right in the middle of fear. I’ve taken on stories I wasn’t sure I could write; I’ve chosen a way of life I wasn’t sure I could make work; Maile and I took a cross-country trip and then moved from a cabin on forty acres and into the city. All things that we did in spite of the fear.

The next big fear for me is publishing this novel, and I think Jason is right – there’s some important part of me that wants to be heard, and I have to step into that place.

* * * * *

We got home from the park and I told Cade how proud I was of him for playing in that pick-up game at the park. He just smiled.

Are you willing to enter into that fearful place in your life and discover what important part of you is trying to be heard?  Or are you avoiding the fear and silencing some inner need?

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A Book That Doesn’t Have All the Answers #100Words

9780825443312Please check out this new book by my friend Ed Cyzewski, A Christian Survival Guide. Here’s a description of the book:

What enables some to survive as Christians when so many others falter? Without resorting to empty answers, clichés, relativism, or smug certainty, A Christian Survival Guide provides an accessible and safe place to deal with issues that can give Christians sleepless nights. By focusing on spiritual practices, discussing solutions to faith struggles, and offering perspectives from multiple Christian traditions, this survival guide moves readers into a thriving relationship with God, even if that means not necessarily finding all the answers.

A Christian Survival Guide doesn’t run away from the big, tough questions of life like:

• Does the Bible have to be “true”?
• Where is God in an evil world?
• Did God sanction genocide?
• Is hell eternal conscious torment?
• Does money keep us from following Jesus?

So, without further ado, here are #100Words from A Christian Survival Guide:

King Saul wasn’t the guy you’d want to join on a road trip. Violent without his favorite songs and opposed to stopping for snacks, he would’ve tried the patience of Job. Once, his choice of a rest stop almost cost him his life.

Jealous with his servant David’s military success and popular support, Saul began chasing him throughout the land of Judah. While running from Saul, David often linked his survival to the remote fresh springs of En Gedi along the Dead Sea coast. En Gedi also had a series of caves that made it an ideal location for a fugitive.

When he least expected it, David had an opportunity to secure his own survival.

You can purchase A Christian Survival Guide today only for your Kindle for $2.99.