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Why I’ve Never Been so Happy About a Messy Bedroom

One thing I’m learning about life is that it can be very easy to spend an inordinate amount of time on minor things and brush over major things as if they don’t even exist. I find this especially prevalent in the way people in the US practice Christianity, the way we run businesses, and the way parents interact with children. Also, marriage. For some reason, it can be easier to spend all of our time obsessing over minor issues when there are major things that are crying out for our attention. Maybe that’s the reason. Maybe occupying ourselves with minor things is a good way of avoiding the major things.

Anyway. As you may have read a few months ago in one of my most popular blog posts ever, we have made time for Maile to write again, but only after several difficult conversations and a wake-up call on my part that I wasn’t extremely proud of. Such is life. I allowed myself over time to get caught up in minor things and completely missed something my wife desperately needed: time to write.

I was reminded of this again yesterday when I arrived in our bedroom aka dumpster aka heap of stuff.

In my experience as a married person, as time has passed, we have naturally divided up the household responsibilities. We are nearly 20 years in, so by now we have certain things we take care of. I try to do the dishes in the morning and fold a few loads of laundry before I go to work, and Maile takes care of the kids and the house during the day – a huge undertaking – and then we divide and conquer at night. On Saturdays, everyone pitches in.

But some duties get cast into a kind of neutral zone where whoever gets sick of something first will take care of it. The kitchen floor is generally one of these things, and as it gets gradually worse and worse I am usually the first person to cave and wash it. As I’m washing it, I usually look up at Maile and she gives me a grin and says, “I knew you couldn’t take it much longer.” Our room is generally the area where Maile gets sick of the mess first and takes care of it. Actually, she usually keeps it very clean.

At least, until she hung out with Christie Purifoy and Amy Knorr at the Festival of Faith and Writing. Maile asked Christie how she did it – how did she write and raise children and take care of the house? Christie smiled and told Maile that when she was in the depths of a project, sometimes things didn’t get done. She got behind on the laundry. Or picking up around the house. Or cleaning the bedroom. She fed the kids easy food and let them entertain themselves and did what it took to make time to write.

Yesterday, I walked into our bedroom aka dumpster aka heap of stuff, sat on the bed, and finished up some writing I needed to do. I could have tidied up. I’m not saying it’s solely Maile’s responsibility. But we’re both busy, we’re both creating, we’re both living, and it’s just not at the top of the list right now. It’s in the neutral zone, waiting for someone to grow tired of it. And that’s okay.

As I was working, Maile came in with the biggest smile on her face.

“Only a few thousand words to go,” she said. “I’m at 56,000 words, and I think it’s almost finished.”

I congratulated her. She will finish by the end of the week. What an accomplishment.

She looked around the room.

“I know the house is a wreck,” she said, still smiling, “but I just keep thinking about what Christie said. I’m going to get this book written, and then we can get back to some kind of normal.”

I’ve never been so happy about having a messy bedroom. I think about the time that Maile has been able to put into arranging these words, the look on her face when she comes out and says she’s written 1200 words that day, or 1500 or 2000. I hear it in her voice when she wrestles with a character or a plot point or something she hadn’t expected. She goes deeper into her writing than I do. She comes out dazed, like someone just baptized.

There is so much we are learning, so much about being married and doing what you love while serving each other and not letting the minor things write our story.

We’re getting there. And we’re learning a lot along the way.

* * * * *

If you’d like to help us afford some kind of cleaning service, you could buy one of my books. Just kidding. Any extra money will pay for Cade’s braces.

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That Thing We All Want

A small group of children, all cousins, stood on a driveway in the forest-covered hills of central PA, giddy, waiting. Every year, for the last 13 years, our extended family has gone away together for a week, and at some point during those 13 years, Uncle Ben began a tradition of creating a treasure hunt for them. Every year, the search grows more intense, the prizes more spectacular.

It was a year of rain, and we were all happy to be outside, stretching our legs or, as Maile’s grandmother used to say, blowing the stink off.

“This year,” their uncle said with great fanfare, “we are welcoming a new member to the treasure hunt team. Leo will be joining us for the first time. Give it up for Leo.”

Leo wasn’t expecting the welcome. He was overjoyed to be with the big kids, and his face overflowed in a grin.

There is so much power to being included, to being welcomed in.

* * * * *

I have a few very early memories. Jumping from the back door of the trailer where we lived in Missouri when I was 2 or 3, into the waiting arms of my grandfather. My sister burning her hand on the kerosene heater when I was 3 or 4. Arriving at our trailer park’s swimming pool in Laredo, Texas, when I was 4, only to discover it was abandoned, empty, and filled with snakes.

And this one: waking up on a normal afternoon, only to discover I had slept through Mr. Rogers. Seriously! I was so little, yet I remember that day! I was devastated. But why that memory, seemingly unimportant, so random? Maybe that’s less the sign of an unimportant memory as it is the importance certain messages hold for children, for all of us really, about being loved and accepted.

I remember one song in particular Mr. Rogers used to sing:

There are many ways to say I love you
There are many ways to say I care about you.
Many ways, many ways, many ways to say
I love you.

And of course the famous,

I like you as you are
Exactly and precisely
I think you turned out nicely
And I like you as you are

* * * * *

When I saw Leo erupt with joy, smile a mile wide, I was reminded, for the first time in a long time, how wonderful it is to feel accepted, how important it is that we include each other whenever we can. I wonder why I don’t include more people in my life, in more ways? Usually it’s because I’m afraid I will receive less, or maybe I’ll become less important, or maybe they’ll change the way I currently do things. Usually it’s based out of fear.

Who do we tend to exclude? Often, children. Often people who don’t look or sound like us. Refugees. A strange neighbor.

Including and loving people, bringing people along on our journey and offering grace, will change the world.

Who can you include in your life? Who, currently on the outside, can you invite in?

This is Leo at the very moment Uncle Ben announced he would be included in this year’s treasure hunt.
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Regarding Summer, Book Releases, and this Tech Journey We’re On with Our Kids

This summer has been a whirlwind. During the last ten weeks we’ve only been home for ten days. It’s been wonderful, all this time spent with extended family, but I’m feeling untethered, a little disoriented. Right now, in fact, I’m up in Leo’s room on Sunday night, and he is sucking his thumb and drifting off, and the window air conditioning unit is humming along, and Sam has already fallen asleep in the top bunk. I think Maile’s reading to Poppy and everyone else is in their rooms, also reading. It’s so good to be home.

We’ve been reevaluating technology in our house, how often we use it, how much access our children have. These are such personal decisions, the kind that have to be made by each and every family, but let me just say this: we have found so much freedom in ditching the screens as much as possible. (So much of this is due to conversations we’ve had with my sister and brother-in-law.) When we left for the mountains a week ago, we asked them to leave all of their electronic devices at home. The ride to the cabin was…slightly magical. The older kids chatted and laughed. We had mini-dance parties whenever a good song came on, because we were all listening to the same music. We had a deep conversation about Michael Jackson that lasted at least 30 minutes. The kids spoke with each other.

When we were nearly there, Maile asked them how it felt, going on a two-hour car ride without any screens.

One of the older kids said, without hesitating, “Freedom.” Another one said in a hesitant voice, “It kind of feels like we’re a family again.”

* * * * *

And of course this was the summer of the book release, with my newest book, The Edge of Over There, coming out on July 3rd. Book releases are so much fun and so exhilarating and completely strange in that, because of all the work that goes into a book, I usually expect the world to stop and acknowledge its birth, but of course the world doesn’t stop, and so I’m left feeling a little empty and maybe a little discombobulated but also very proud and thrilled and hopeful.

Writing is such a strange endeavor. Telling stories in this particular age is a remarkable thing. I’m so happy I get to do this work.

* * * * *

And even after all of this, the summer keeps going. I’ve got upcoming stops where I hope to see some of you in real life. Here’s what’s currently on the schedule:

Book release party! You’re all invited to our house (41 W James St.) on Sunday, August 5th at 3pm for snacks and a relaxing time to hang out. I’ll read a bit from the book and have signed books there for folks to purchase if they’d like. Please RSVP by messaging me or at the Event page on Facebook.

Art House North with Steve Wiens! This event in Saint Paul, Minnesota is going to be amazing. Join me and Steve Wiens for a night of storytelling, song, and a chance to be a part of a live recording of his podcast, This Good Word. We’ll be joined by musical guests Steve and Heidi Haines, who will be sharing songs from their soon-to-be-released album. Get your tickets HERE.

The Great Frederick Fair! As we have done for the last 60 years or so, my family will have our food tent set up at the Frederick Fair in Frederick, Maryland. Come on by, say hello, and buy a book – I’ll have a bunch on sale there.

Breathe Writers Conference! I’ll be presenting at the Breathe Christian Writers’ conference in October. Get all the details here.

On October 20th, shortly after the release of my next book, Once We Were Strangers, I’ll be hosting an event at the amazing Hearts and Minds bookstore in Dallastown, PA! More details to come, but in the meantime, save the date.

* * * * *

But tonight I’m here, and outside, James Street is as busy as ever. Our 125-year-old American Sycamore growing out of the front walk is looking pretty pleased with herself, taller than our three-story house, shimmering green from all the recent rain. Dusky light glows in lines through the blinds in the boys’ room.

Here we go. Another week. Make space to do the things you love. Make time to see real people in person. Write a letter. Make amends. Listen.

In other words, live.

Photo by Danka & Peter via Unsplash
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A Solution to Mid-Summer Boredom

Photo by Rawpixel via Unsplash

It’s that time of year. The days are long and hot. The children are getting restless. Everyone is looking for something to do.

Look no further.

I’m creating a four-part video series on how to write your own story, an introductory look into fiction writing. The first video will give you or a child you love a few hints and insights into how to create a character. That video is free! You can find it at the bottom of this page.

If you want the remaining three videos delivered to your inbox (videos on setting, conflict, and plot), all you have to do is preorder my book, The Edge of Over There, before it releases on Tuesday and then fill in your order information HERE.

Enjoy!

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What I Learned as a Child in my Back Country Church

When I was a child, my family attended a church in the wooded hills that line Lancaster and Chester counties in central Pennsylvania. I haven’t been there for 25 years, but I could still tell you the details of the drive from my house to church. And that shouldn’t surprise you – we were there at least once on Sunday mornings, every Sunday night, and every Wednesday night. It was a well-worn route from the farmhouse where we lived, over country roads, through tiny, middle-of-nowhere villages, past farms and creeks, and finally around the last bend and up the hill to the church driveway.

When I was little, and the church was young, our Sunday School class met in the basement. I remember the dark trek down the stairway lined with wood paneling, into the wide, low-ceilinged basement and then dashing to the room where our class met off to one side. I loved that church more than anything. All my best friends went there. Eventually, my father would be the associate pastor, so it felt like everyone knew me. I was at home there. I felt loved, which is no small thing for a child.

What I’ve been thinking about a lot lately are the Sunday School lessons I learned in that tiny basement room. I remember my teachers, and in those days we had the high-tech flannel boards with the flannel figures that only occasionally stuck. And lately I’ve been thinking about one lesson in particular, the lesson that begins with a religious leader trying to justify himself by asking, “And who is my neighbor?”

And who is my neighbor?

It’s hard to ask that question in the context without sounding self-righteous. Come on, Jesus. I know I’m supposed to love my neighbor – that’s clear in scripture. But I need a definition so that I can follow the letter of the law. Surely there are limits to such a command.

I remember Jesus’ response. I remember my teacher putting the flannel characters up on the board, the Jewish man beaten by thieves and left dying on the side of the road. I remember the tenderness of my teacher, explaining how first a priest passed him by, and then a Levite, both experts in religious law, both too concerned with other things, both justifying their actions in various ways. And then, the Samaritan came along, a man who had no reason to stop in that dangerous territory and help a Jew. Yet he did.

I remember finding the story almost comical, too far-fetched. None of the religious leaders I knew in my church would ever walk by someone who needed help! After all, we served the homeless and the poor. We visited people who were sick. We gave money to anyone who needed it. What kind of crazy story was Jesus telling?

I no longer attend that church, but I find myself thinking back to the adults there who formed my faith, as well as the other kids in my class, now grown with families of their own. I see the news and wonder if they remember that story. I hear statistics that say nearly 80% of Evangelicals think we have no responsibility to help the world-wide population of refugees. I watch as people I went to church with argue that it is no bad thing for immigrant children to be separated from their parents.

We grow up, and we so easily forget the simplicity with which we heard the gospel as children.

Who is my neighbor?

The question echoes in my mind. How quickly this life can make us cynical and hard. How quickly painful life experiences lead us to forget the simplest and most straightforward commands of Christ. Our idolization of nationalism, or strength, or security, help us rationalize what is good, what is acceptable. And years pass. And we find ourselves so far from the path we set out on, tangled in the woods of a life dedicated to our own well-being.

Who is my neighbor?

I see the news and I wonder. I wonder what actions and opinions are now practiced by the beautiful people I grew up going to church with. I wonder if, in a complex and changing world, any of us can find our way back to the simplest commands of Christ.

“Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?”

The expert in the law replied, “The one who had mercy on him.”

Jesus told him, “Go and do likewise.”

It’s really so simple. Who is a neighbor? The one who practices mercy. Mercy. Go and do likewise.

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Why Do We Keep Building Our Castles in the Sand?

June 11th, 2018

We are in Florida. I work on a few writing projects during the day, including my current manuscript, and Maile tries to find something to do with the kids when the sun is at its burning hot zenith, something that doesn’t involve going outside. The days pass quietly this way, and the afternoon thunderstorms drift along the Florida horizon, giants lumbering from here to there. I watch them through the glass, through waves of heat that rise up off the streets.

Evenings are best because we drift out to the gulf when the sun is dropping and the beach is empty. We swim out to the sandbar at Lido and stand in the shin-deep water 500 feet from shore, and it looks like we are nearly walking on water, not quite Peter, not quite able to stay on the surface, but having at least a shin-deep faith.

As the sun reaches down to the horizon, we build sand castles a dozen feet out of the waves’ reach, dig a deep moat and mound high walls and form keeps and towers, and we imagine we live there, in the sand, in that pretend place, far from the troubles of this world. Lucy and Cade and Abra and Sam join me on my knees, gritty in the sand, digging and building and dreaming. Leo and Poppy run in and out of the water, simultaneously brave and afraid. Maile is on her knees, bent over and staring at the sand, watching the tiny shellfish burrow their way to safety.

The waves keep coming, though. Higher. Closer. Their progress is subtle but they soon fill the moat around our castle, erode the base of the walls. The sun sets and we pack our things and rinse off in the dark, tasting salt on our lips, the grit never quite leaving us. The few people we do pass in the evening smile at almost-2-year-old Poppy and say hello, and she replies with her tiny voice. We drive back to my grandmother’s house with the windows open, the night air somehow both cool and warm, the lights of downtown Sarasota shining like stars.

And late at night, when the fans are whirring and the children are sleeping and we slip into the darkness, I wonder, Why do we keep building our castles in the sand?

* * * * *

Writing books feels a lot like building castles in the sand. After all, our sand castles never survive the night. The same could be said of most books. So much work, so much diligence, so much intention and discipline…for what? To be forgotten by most people soon after they come out. How many books are remembered and appreciated widely five years later? Ten years later? This work, this writing, can feel fleeting indeed, when the pouring out of your soul results in a tiny blip of interest, a small lump of words that stand until later books, later interests, later fads, push it out of memory.

But this is why I keep writing:

It is never about the sand castle. It never has been. I just didn’t realize it.

It is about doing the work diligently, enjoying it, creating something. It is about digging my hands into the earth and piling up what I find, forming it into something whimsical or beautiful, something that people walking by can enjoy. It is about getting lost in the creation of a thing so far beyond me, so far inside of me, that I never know what the end will look like.

It isn’t about the book. It is about the writing of the book. It is always about the writing. And this is why I keep going.

* * * * *

Will you help me build the sand castle I’m currently working on? The odds it survives for long are not great. We might come back tomorrow and find it’s been washed away. But it has been a joy to build, and you can help me finish it well, if you’re willing to get down in the sand, to get your knees a little gritty, to get wet.

Here are a few things you can do to help:

Preorder my upcoming book, The Edge of Over There or request it from your local library.

There is still time to join my Facebook launch team. You’ll get a free digital ARC of the book in exchange for an online review and help spreading the word during release week, which begins July 3rd.

If you haven’t yet read it, buy the first book in the series, The Day the Angels Fell. Or request it from your local library.

* * * * *

I watched my children while we built our castles. I watched them as the waves came close. And I noticed something: they never thought the castle would last forever. They weren’t in the business of building something that would never fade, and this didn’t bother them! They watched the incoming waves test our moat and walls. They watched the water spill inside. As we left, the castle’s destruction was well underway, but they were never disheartened. Why?

Because it was fun to build. And they knew we would come back the next day to create something new.

Thanks for helping me build these little sand castles. It’s been fun, hasn’t it?