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Why I Changed My Blog Post Topic For Today

So, here’s the deal. I was going to write another post about The Day the Angels Fell, a different angle to try and get people’s attention. But I couldn’t write tonight because I was so blown away by your response. Thanks to all your generous contributions and the messages you shared all over the interwebs, you helped me raise almost $2,500.

$2,500.

In one day.

You guys are incredible. I’m writing this at 11:12pm on Monday night, and I’m feeling pretty emotional about the whole thing because it means so much to me that each of you would give so much to help me reach this dream of mine.

So that’s all I’ve got for right now. Just a huge thank you.

If you’re like, What is this guy talking about?, you can click HERE to check out the Kickstarter campaign for my novel, The Day the Angels Fell.

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Today is a Very Big Day

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(If you’d like to head straight over to my Kickstarter campaign, click HERE.)

Today’s the day. My Kickstarter campaign for The Day the Angels Fell begins. This means that if you’d like to help me publish my first novel (by preordering a copy, or by hosting a book party, or by taking a writing class that I’m offering, or in a number of other ways), all you have to do is head over to my Kickstarter page and make a donation in exchange for your preferred reward. If I raise the entire amount of $3,500 in 30 days, then I get the money and you get your reward. If I don’t raise the total amount, no money changes hands and no rewards are given.

It all feels rather adventurous, I have to admit, sort of like the day we packed up the Big Blue Bus and hit the road for four months. I’m hoping to avoid any sudden loss of brakes, any major pitfalls, and any wrong turns…but producing a Kickstarter campaign is probably like any other adventure, which means the unforeseen will definitely happen.

So, if you want to help me publish my first novel, head on over to my Kickstarter campaign. I’ve got more information over there about the book itself, including a video where I explain the origins of the story and how my kids helped me create it.

Some of you have asked me how you can help. One of the best things you can do is to help spread the word on Facebook, Twitter, and to your friends via email or in real life. If I sell about 250 paperback copies of the book, I’ll hit my goal, and this is totally possible with your help. If you have a blog or a podcast and are willing to talk about this campaign there, do an interview with me, or post a guest post by me, just let me know.

Thanks, once again, for the ways you all support my writing life. I continue to be humbled and amazed at how many of you show up here every week to read my blog. I was blown away last week by the incredible support you all gave me when I shared the news about this upcoming novel – a few of you even reached out to me privately with donations and words of encouragement. Thank you.

Seriously.

Thank you.

So…here we go.

To check out the Kickstarter campaign, click HERE.

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Two Years Ago This Week (Or, What Heaven Looks Like)

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Copyright Tessa Marie Images. Used with permission.

Two years ago this week, my grandmother died. I will always remember her for her fierce love. Literally. She was a cheek-pinching, chest-thumping, chin-grabbing, back-patting, full-on hugger who refused to give any of her grandchildren a kiss unless it was smack on the mouth. But when I say she loved in a fierce way, I’m not talking primarily about a physical characteristic. This fierce love emanated from her like energy. Her eyes flashed with happiness every single time she saw me, and she would laugh with happiness.

“Well, Shawny, Shawny,” she’d say, chuckling to herself, as if she had thought she would never see me again, but look, there I was, a miracle.

Maile and I lived in England from 2001 to 2005, and during our visits back, whenever we saw her, she was intent on monopolizing us. She wanted to know everything about England, what we were doing there, what it was like in that faraway place. And she’d shake her head in awe the entire time we talked, amazed at how small the world had grown. Sometimes, during her last weeks on earth, she thought we still lived there, and she’d ask me about it.

“We don’t live in England anymore, Grandma,” I’d say, and she’d squeeze my hand as if she needed my physical presence to reassure her that my words were true.

“Oh, yes,” she’d say quietly. “That’s right.”

She was very concerned about us when we went on our four-month cross-country trip. Once we returned, she asked over and over again what states we had visited. She wanted to hear about how we lost our brakes, and she’d hold her hand over her mouth in horror. When I finished the story for the tenth time, she sighed with relief, as if it might have ended some other way that time. Perhaps we had actually plummeted over the side of the Tetons. She was relieved that wasn’t the case.

But the thing I will always remember the most about my Grandma is the way the family came together during her last week on earth. The hospice nurse said she wouldn’t be with us for much longer, so we came in from all corners of the world to my aunt’s house where Grandma sat in her old armchair having whispered conversations with people, one or two at a time. In the evenings, when everyone could be there, we sat around and sang old hymns she requested, and she patted her hand on the side of her old chair, still keeping rhythm.

Many of us spent those nights there at my aunt’s house waiting for her to pass. We slept on the floor and on couches and in the spare rooms, and sometimes, if those who watched at her bedside thought she was passing, we’d gather around her and sing quietly. But she would pull through, and for a while it seemed that she would never die, that perhaps we had already entered heaven. After all, we were laughing together and eating together and spending time with those we loved the most, and we were singing together, and time had become irrelevant.

A country where no twilight shadows deepen
Unending day where night will never be
A city where no storm clouds ever gather
This is just what Heaven means to me

What will it be when we get over yonder
And join the throng around the glassy sea
To join our loved ones and crown Christ forever
This is just what Heaven means to me

But eventually she passed, surrounded by a living legacy of artists and business people, writers and pastors, teachers and mothers. She was 92 years old, and if I can live a life as full as hers, I will be a lucky man indeed.

 

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Why I Was the Security Risk At My Daughters’ Swim Practice

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If you’ve been reading this blog lately, you’ll know we’ve run into a few hiccups in life. Our truck was hit-and-run. Broken iPad. Stolen bike. The normal kind of stuff that life likes to throw at you every once in a while. I know it’s an old cliche, but “when it rains, it pours” does seem rather true. We’ve been sailing along through life for the last couple of years without any major obstacles, but starting this summer things got a little intense.

Anyway, I was sitting at my girls’ swim practice last night. It’s at the city YMCA, a bustling place in our little town, and the indoor pool area was packed. There was a group of older ladies doing water aerobics, two groups of kids doing swimming lessons, and a swim team taking up over half the pool. I sat there on the bench and waiting for some of the people to clear out before I hopped in the water and flailed about swam some laps.

But as I sat there, I felt myself tightening up under the pressure of life. Nothing too specific – just the general abundance of things that were giving us problems. Then, for some reason, I thought about our new Episcopal church, St. James, and how we say the Lord’s Prayer together every Sunday, and what peace that brings me.

I thought, you know what? I don’t care what anyone else thinks. So right there on the bench I closed my eyes and started whisper-mumbling those lines over and over again.

Our Father who is in heaven
Hallowed be thy name
Thy kingdom come
Thy will be done
On earth as it is in heaven

And I could feel myself beginning to unwind. I took deep breaths, praying on the exhale, surrounded by the sound of splashing water and laughing children and shouting coaches.

Give us this day our daily bread
And forgive us our trespasses
As we forgive those who trespass against us
Lead us not into temptation
But deliver us from evil

My breathing came slower. And it was at about that time that I got the lifeguard’s attention. I guess they’re a little suspicious of grubby-looking white men with straggly beards sitting poolside while the little girls have their swim practice. Especially when said grubby-looking white man has his eyes closed and is mumbling to himself.

“Hey, man,” the lifeguard said, and my eyes shot open.

“Oh, hi,” I said.

“What’s up?” he asked, and I caught the subtext to that question pretty quickly, something along the lines of You sicko, what are you doing here and what’s wrong with your brain that you sit here with your eyes closed casting curses on everyone.

“Oh, nothing. Nothing. My daughters have practice.” I pointed vaguely into the water.

“Oh, okay,” he said, smiling with relief. “That’s cool.”

Then he walked away.

For thine is the kingdom and the power and glory forever and ever. Amen.

“Daddy, I passed my deep water test!” Abra squealed as she came up out of the pool and walked towards me, dripping wet. Lucy congratulated her. We picked up Cade at the gym and walked home, through the rain, the cars swishing past us on the wet roads, the traffic lights running in streaks across the pavement. We got to the last light, and as soon as the walk sign appeared, Lucy shouted what she always shouts.

“Last one home is a rotten egg!”

So we ran through the warm night, summer’s last gasp, and galloped up the steps to the porch, then poured into the house, shoes squeaking on wood floors, all in the kind light of home. I sighed, and I felt a lot better.

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The Big Announcement

Concentration from Flickr via Wylio
© 2011 John Morgan, Flickr | CC-BY | via Wylio

So, the big announcement:

I’m doing it. I’m publishing a novel.

* * * * *

Thirty years ago, if you turned on to South New Holland Road off of 772 and drove for about a quarter mile, past the Amish schoolhouse, to a strange little intersection where Hershey Church Road bore off to the right, and if you followed Hershey Church Road for a few hundred yards until you came to the first lane on the left, and if you drove back that long lane to the farmhouse, and if you walked past the large vegetable garden and under the two large oak trees, you might have seen me sitting on the front porch, reading a book.

If it was thirty years ago, you probably would have found me reading The Hardy Boys or The Black Stallion. Twenty-seven years ago? I was probably knee-deep in The Chronicles of Narnia or The Lord of the Rings.

I wasn’t picky, though. I read anything my school librarian recommended. I devoured books.

Years passed. We moved away from the farmhouse. But I kept reading. Soon, I didn’t want to only read stories – I wanted to create them myself.

* * * * *

This first book that I’m releasing, The Day the Angels Fell, is a book I wrote for my children because it’s about a very difficult subject: death. As Madeleine L’Engle so aptly said,

“You have to write the book that wants to be written. And if the book will be too difficult for grown-ups, then you write it for children.”

But I’m hoping adults will pick it up and enjoy it, too. Even if it’s too difficult for them.

* * * * *

I’ll tell you more about the book when the Kickstarter releases on Monday. For those of you who don’t know how Kickstarter works, here’s a quick summary. People pledge an amount of money to help a project come to fruition. For this project, people will pledge money to help my novel get published (because it costs money to publish a book – $3500 in this case for editing and cover design and digital formatting).

There are various levels that you will be able to contribute: $15 gets you a signed, paperback copy of the book; $49 gets you a limited-edition hardback copy and an invite to the exciting book launch party. $169 gets you the hardback plus a spot in a writing class I’ll be running early next year. Some of the other rewards include personal writing coaching, me helping you self-publish your own book, and even me writing a small book for you about your family or yourself or your business or your charity.

And there are all kinds of other rewards as well, which you can check out next Monday when the project releases.

But the important thing to remember with Kickstarter is this: if I don’t raise the entire amount, I don’t get any of the money. And the rewards go unfulfilled.

How can you help? Donate to the project and help me spread the word next week. Mark your calendars for Monday, October 20th, and help me get off to a good start.

* * * * *

How do I feel about it? I’m still kind of terrified. What if I don’t raise the money? What if I do raise the money and then release a book no one likes?

But I’m also kind of over it. I’ve gotten to the point where I have written a story I really love and I want to share it. It’s time to tell fear to stop being a jerk. It’s time for me to move on, through the fear, and see what lies on the other side.

Stay tuned!

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The Incident of the Garbage Disposal (Or, Making Time Stand Still)

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It doesn’t seem so long ago since we walked the trails at Messiah College, our feet moving lightly over layers of leaves, our conversation growing quiet as a jogger approached, then passed. Those were long, quiet days. Nights in the library and easy walks back across campus, stopping in the dark spaces between street lights.

Florida doesn’t seem that long ago either – newly married and driving eighteen hours to our first house where we tore out the carpet and slept on those old rolls for one night before our mattress arrived. There was the incident of the garbage disposal and the evenings over Scrabble and milkshakes. Or the times (yes, plural) when we ate entire pans of Rice Crispy candy.

Those days were slow, too, and warm, and the weeks drifted along. But life went faster after that, and soon we were in England, early morning rides into Victoria Station and long days making pretzels. Sneaking an evening out here and there, trying not to worry about the store, the future. Those days went faster, and we added children to the mix, and many crossings of the sky above the Atlantic. Of course there was the New Year’s Day skeet shoot and the long walks to Wendover on paths worn deep by pilgrims, but there the months passed like weeks, the weeks like days.

And soon we were back. This time Virginia. Fast pace. Long hours. Lots of friends and two more children and, after four years there, the heavy weight of disappointment. Driving a full moving truck through the rain, north, into the unknown.

But now. What is now like? i think the rhythms are slowing again. I think? It’s hard to tell when you’re in the moment – it’s like this strange kind of music you can listen to but not really hear for a few years. Only on reflection.

* * * * *

I sit in the living room and it’s a rare night because everyone except me is asleep by 9:00. I can hear the cars passing by on James Street, and voices shouting friendly greetings from one corner to the next. Another week is coming. Another Monday.

How can we grab time and tame it? How can we slow it down and force it to do our bidding? We already have an 11-year-old. Is there a secret way to stop time, to dam it into a large lake and let it pass in a more controlled fashion, through large passages that I can close entirely?

But that’s the problem, because there is no lake large enough to hold time – even if I could somehow back it up, it would only swell up over the sides, find some other way to pass, and eventually the dam would crumble under such a weight. Time is, after all, very heavy. And too light to hold down.

* * * * *

“Thanks for riding the roller coaster with me today,” I say to my daughter, and she laughs, because we both know she was scared at first. I lean in after we’ve prayed and go to kiss her on the cheek, but she points her chin up and kisses me right on the lips, which is nice because it means she is still my little girl.

It’s in moments like that when time stands still.

I sigh, and I give her a hug, and I walk down the stairs. And I turn out the light.

Come back to the blog tomorrow for a huge announcement. Huge, I tell you!