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Your Addiction is Speaking to You

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My dad was a pastor when I was a kid, so I occasionally found myself waiting in an empty church while he finished up whatever he was working on back in his office. Sometimes I’d go to the gym and throw a ball against the wall over and over and over again. Sometimes I’d walk through the tiny, empty bookstore and stare longingly at the Chronicles of Narnia box set I would eventually by for $11.96. Sometimes I’d just sit on the curb outside.

But the times that have left me with the most poignant memories are when I would walk into the empty church sanctuary. Sanctuary. A place that provides safety or protection. I would walk on the thick carpet, up the aisle between the two sides, all the way to the front. There was a communion table there, and the pulpit, and the piano up on the stage.

I wish I could tell you I did something particularly holy in those moments, but I didn’t. I stretched out on the floor and stared up at the ceiling, and the dim light that fell through the tall windows illuminated all the little specks of dust floating through the air. I wondered about the universe and my place in it. I watched each speck, each little planet, as it came and went in and out of those beams of light, and I made up stories about them and their inhabitants.

Then, far off, from a distant galaxy, I heard my dad’s voice calling my name.

* * * * *

Seth Haines releases a new book today, Coming Clean, and in it he shares a similar experience as a young boy in Texas climbing into the mesquite trees. He writes that it was the first place he remembers hearing God speak to him, but that as he got older the reality of that voice dimmed.

This, I think, is perhaps the greatest challenge we will face as adults, and perhaps the most important: How will we rediscover that beautiful childhood imagination and belief that allowed us to hear the voice of God while sitting in the thin arms of a mesquite tree, or lying on the plush carpet of an empty church sanctuary? Where has this voice gone?

Maybe the voice hasn’t gone anywhere. Maybe the problem lies in our ability to listen, to hear.

* * * * *

Seth’s book is unique because it gives you the feeling that you are traveling right into someone’s very soul. The title might be Coming Clean, but it could just as easily be Rediscovering the Still, Small Voice. I prefer the title he chose, but I hope you won’t avoid the book because you don’t have a problem with drugs or alcohol, or because your particular brand of addiction is less vilified than its chemical cousins.

As Seth has said many times, we are, all of us, trying to come clean from something. This book will help you see what it is you’re trying to shed, and it will also show you the beauty that waits even in the shadows of recovery.

* * * * *

I think again on what I wrote earlier, that “I wish I could tell you I did something particularly holy in those moments” when I simply got down on the carpet and stared at the dust. But now I wonder if maybe that isn’t one of the holiest things we can do.

Stop. Breathe. See. Listen. Wait.

I highly recommend Coming Clean. I think it will help you do all of those things, and then some.

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“Did God Break My Neck?”

The following is an excerpt from the book, Theology of Luck: Fate, Chaos, and Faith. In the book, authors Rob Fringer and Jeff Lane wrestle with the question of God’s role in the universe.

“Did God break my neck?”

Joshua Prager has struggled with this question for more than half his life. It is the question that has made him stop believing in God. On May 16, 1990, Joshua and his companions were traversing a winding hill in Jerusalem when a runaway truck carrying four tons of ceramic tiles hit them. One person was killed, many sustained serious injuries, and Joshua was paralyzed from the neck down.

Plagued by questions of why, Joshua set out twenty-two years after the crash to find the man who had been driving the runaway truck, seeking answers and some semblance of closure. Yet Joshua’s encounter with Abed, the driver of the runaway truck, left him well short of settled. Instead of showing remorse, Abed spent most of their conversation complaining about his own suffering, taking no responsibility for his part in the tragedy. But the most difficult part for Joshua was Abed’s suggestion that everything that happened that day was maktoob (the Arabic term for “letter,” or “written,” which communicates the idea that events are fated to occur for divine purposes). Abed described how he had lived an unholy life before the crash and how God had ordained this wreck to transform his journey. From where Abed sat, Joshua and all of the victims in the crash were part of a grand scheme that had been written by God to get Abed’s attention.

Overcome by a multitude of emotions, Joshua had to come to terms with the possibility that God might have caused these events. As difficult as this idea was, it actually provided him with some momentary relief. After all, if God had his hands in every activity, then there was likely some purpose behind it all, and at least Joshua had some answers.

Yet it was hard for Joshua to say thank you to this kind of God, especially in his current situation. The words of this reckless truck driver continued to haunt him. How could it be said it was God’s will? Eventually Joshua abandoned that belief. As he began to reflect and research, he realized that what others saw as divine orchestration could simply be a perfect storm of potentialities. Today, when he is asked about the cause of the accident, he describes how his neck snapped because of the lack of a proper headrest in his seat. He speaks about how the driver of the runaway truck had twenty-six driving violations, how the road they traveled was notorious for tragic accidents, with more than 144 reported and many casualties, and how bad the weather conditions were that day.

Joshua’s story may sound outlandish, but it is just one of many similar episodes. The times, places, and events are different, but the basic stories are the same. People faced with disease, death, or loss cry out for answers, and the best this world can give them is either purposeless chance or divine, random purpose.

God must have had a reason for the death of that child.

God must be trying to tell you something through the loss of that job.

That tragedy was meant as a judgment by God.
 God is in control; everything happens for a reason.


These types of phrases and our reactions to them say a lot about our understanding of God. (Or is it a misunderstanding?) Do we really believe God causes events like these as part of some divine plan? Do we really believe our lives, the good and the bad, are already written by God?

Check out the book Theology of Luck HERE.

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Bandersnatch: An Invitation to Explore Your Unconventional Soul

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I find myself recommending this book to everyone these days.

“Have you read Erika Morrison’s book Bandersnatch yet?” I ask, but of you course you haven’t, BECAUSE IT COMES OUT TODAY!!! Here’s an excerpt from one of the best books of 2015. Read it. Love it. Go buy it. Tell all your friends about it.

But first let me say this: She asks dangerous questions, friends, questions about the nature of who we are. Proceed with caution.

———–

“In July of 2000, when my husband and I got married, I was the ripe old age of nineteen and he was a seasoned twenty-four. Six months later I found out there was a baby in my belly, not on purpose. Then shortly after, another baby got in my belly not on purpose; then even less shortly after another baby got in my belly not on purpose.

Now, I know what you’re probably thinking: somebody needs to check the date on her birth control! But I promise you that nothing short of a medieval chastity belt with a rusted-shut lock could keep this Fertile Myrtle from getting pregnant. I don’t even trust the vasectomy my . . . never mind, I digress.

When our last boy was born in the left leg of my husband’s pajama pants (I should probably mention I was wearing them) while we rode the elevator up to the labor and delivery floor of Yale-New Haven Hospital, I had just birthed my third baby in three years. I’ll go ahead and do the math for you. I was twenty- three years young with a three-year-old wrapped around my thighs, a sixteen-month-old in one arm, a newborn in the other, and a godforsaken look of “Help!” writ across my face.

It was about this time that, as mentioned in the previous chapter, our marriage dove headlong into mess, we lost our income for too long to hang onto our home, and we experienced religious restlessness and a whole heap of other life challenges. Those early years redefined my own terms for what it meant to be drowning in the lifeblood leaking from every pore on my body. My internal equipment just wasn’t mature and qualified enough for my external reality, a reality that was demanding more of me than I could bear

What happened to me is what some psychologists call an identity crisis, a term coined in the early 1950s by Erik Erikson to refer to a state of confusion and unhappiness over one’s sense of self. If anyone had thought to ask me “Who are you?” in my good and lucid moments—which were few and far between—I could’ve answered with just about nothing.

I don’t know if you’ve ever felt the pain of not knowing who you are or if you feel that pain right now, but what can easily happen in that place of ache is that you start looking at other people, extracting the qualities you like about them, and injecting those qualities into your person as a substitute for what you don’t understand about yourself.

This is no bueno and that was what I did. In my naivete, I saw the people around me as more inherently gifted than I was, so I decided that self-fulfillment meant adopting their God-given gifts as my own. I looked at this person’s way of socializing and that person’s version of hospitality and another person’s artistic expression and began mimicking their nuances. Before I knew any better, I had squeezed my shape into several different ill-fitting molds at once, while cramming my own personhood into a tiny, overlooked corner in the nether regions of my body.

What I didn’t realize at the time was how devastated my spirit would become under the influence of everyone else’s borrowed qualities. Other people’s gifts and character traits are designed to enhance, enrich, and complement our own, but never act as substitute for them.

A healthy sense of self-identity seemed to be a luxury I didn’t have the currency for . . .”

(Excerpt from Erika Morrison’s book, Bandersnatch: An Invitation to Explore Your Unconventional Soul.)

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The cardinals make it look so easy. The honeybees make it look so easy. The catfish and the black crow, the dairy cow and the cactus plant, all make being created appear effortless. They arise from the earth, do their beautiful, exclusive thing and die having fulfilled their fate.

None of nature seems to struggle to know who they are or what to do with themselves.

But humanity is the exception to nature’s rule because we’re individualized within our breed. We’re told by our mamas and mentors that–like snowflakes–no two of us are the same and that we each have a special purpose and part to play within the great Body of God.

(If your mama never told you this, consider yourself informed: YOU–your original cells and skin-print, guts and ingenuity–will never ever incarnate again. Do you believe it?)

So we struggle and seek and bald our knees asking variations of discovery-type questions (Who am I? Why am I here?) and if we’re semi-smart and moderately equipped we pay attention just enough to wake up piecemeal over years to the knowledge of our vital, indigenous selves.

And yet . . . even for all our wrestling and wondering, there are certain, abundant factors stacked against our waking up. We feel and fight the low ceiling of man made definitions, systems and institutions; we fight status quo, culture conformity, herd mentalities and more often than not, “The original shimmering self gets buried so deep that most of us end up hardly living out of it at all. Instead we live out of all our other selves, which we are constantly putting on and taking off like coats and hats against the world’s weather.” ~Frederick Buechner

So, let me ask you. Do you know something–anything–of your true, original, shimmering self?

I don’t mean: Coffee Drinker, Jesus Lover, Crossfitter, Writer, Wife, Mama.

Those are your interests and investments.

I do mean: Who are you undressed and naked of the things that tell you who you are?

Who are you before you became a Jesus lover or mother or husband?

Who are you without your church, your hobbies, your performances and projects?

I’m not talking about your confidence in saying, “I am a child of God”, either. What I am asking a quarter-dozen different ways is this: within the framework of being a child of God, what part of God do you represent? Do you know where you begin and where you end? Do you know the here-to-here of your uniqueness? Do you know, as John Duns Scotus puts it, your unusual, individual “thisness”?

I can’t resolve this question for you, I can only ask you if you’re interested.

(Are you interested . . . ?)

Without being formulaic and without offering one-size-fits-all “how-to” steps, Bandersnatch: An Invitation to Explore Your Unconventional Soul is support material for your soul odyssey; a kind of field guide designed to come alongside the moment of your unfurling.

Come with me? And I will go with you and who will care and who will lecture if you wander around a little bit every day to look for your own and only God-given glow

If you’re interested, you can order wherever books and ebooks are sold.

Or, if you’d like to read the first three chapters and just see if Bandersnatch is something for such a time as the hour you’re in, click HERE.

All my love,

Erika

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Can I Be Honest About a Struggle I Have With This Writing Life?

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Can I be honest about a struggle I have with this writing life? Because recently I went from typing happily to realizing my forehead was flat on the desk.

It went like this. My agent asked me to write up a book proposal for an idea I’ve been toying around with for a long time. She sent me a template to use, and this template was a book proposal recently written by a very popular author for a book the author proposed to write. I’ve been working on my proposal for the last week or so, off and on, going back and forth from this author’s template to my own proposal. I wrote the summary, the bio, and the chapter-by-chapter synopsis.

At one point during the chapter synopsis, I started to get really excited about the book. The chapters felt compelling, the narrative smooth and intriguing and fun. This could be good, I thought. This might just work.

That is the typing happily part.

Then I got to the part in the proposal about platform – you know, how many Facebook fans, how many people read my blog on a daily basis, how many Twitter followers. That kind of thing. But the problem was that I was using this other writer’s book proposal as a template, so I got to see her platform. Her numbers. Her following.

It was probably twenty times bigger than mine. This is the part when my forehead hit the desk.

You know the flubbery, spitting sound a balloon makes when you blow it up but release it before tying it off? That’s basically what happened to me when I saw those towering platform numbers. How can I ever compare to that? What publisher would ever want to publish my book when that author’s numbers are so much higher than mine?

I love writing. I’m a decent writer. I’m so far behind where I should be. I suck.

That was the basic progression.

* * * * *

I’ve learned something, though. At this point in my life, when I start to feel that frantic, chaotic voice invading my head space, I know what to do.

Sit in silence.

Go down deeper.

Listen.

You know what I heard in that silence? The first thing was that comparing myself to any other writer is silliness, a fruitless exercise. I am who I am. I write what I write. I have the audience I have. And, today, that’s good enough. What a relief.

Then, a second thought – when I bemoan my own platform, I’m saying that you guys, my readers, aren’t important enough. When I give into this thinking that my audience isn’t big enough, it’s like I’m wishing you all away for a different crowd. And I wouldn’t do that. I love the crowd I write for. I’m honored that you folks show up and read these words. Sometimes I can’t believe how many there are of you.

Thank you so much for doing that.

* * * * *

All of this to say one thing: the work that each of us is doing is enough. Keep going, friend! Do what’s in front of you to do. No comparisons allowed. One more step. Then another. We’ll get to the top of the mountain soon enough.

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Seven Things You Should Know About the Sequel to “The Day the Angels Fell”

cover010-e1416195041963Sometime this week, I’ll do it.

I’ll open up the Scrivener file for the sequel to The Day the Angels Fell and I’ll start the next round of revisions. Of course, I still have normal, paying projects to work on so I’ll be doing these revisions in the early or late hours of the day. But I’m really looking forward to it – I haven’t even glanced at the manuscript for a few months. It will be fun to be back in Deen (and New Orleans, and…the Edge of Over There) with Abra.

For those of you who enjoyed the first book, here are some things about the sequel you might want to know:

1) The title is The Edge of Over There.*

2) Right now it’s hovering around 80,000 words, which is pretty close to the length of The Day the Angels Fell.

3) Abra and Sam are no longer close friends. In fact, Abra kind of steals the show in this one. Which my son Sammy won’t be happy about, because his standard comment about the first book was, “And guess what? I’m the main character!”

4) I’ll be independently publishing and offering the book for preorder through Kickstarter. I decided to use Kickstarter again for a number of reasons: the Kickstarter campaign for the first one was so successful (you guys funded it in two days!!!); it’s a great way to cover the publishing costs (which, if you want to put together a professional book, isn’t a cheap proposition); and it’s one of the easiest ways I can, as an independent publisher, offer the book for preorder.

5) I’ll be looking for folks to help me launch the book later in the fall. If you’re willing to help with that (basically by helping me spread the word with your friends and family and total strangers on the internet and in person via email, FB status updates, Twitter, and megaphone shouting in the subway), let me know in the comments or by clicking the Contact button at the top of the page and sending me a short message to that affect.

6) If you support the Kickstarter campaign at a certain level (I haven’t decided which one yet), you’ll receive a short-story that reveals some VERY interesting information about Sam’s mom. And Abra’s mom, too. Listen folks – they’re not who you think they are.

7) I had so much fun writing this book. I can honestly say, along with John Steinbeck, “Even if I knew that nothing would emerge from this book, I would still write it.”

So there you have it. I hope at least a few of you are looking forward to the sequel as much as I am.

Here’s a question for you…what are your thoughts on me using Kickstarter to release the sequel? Does it feel okay to you? Does it feel icky in any way? Is it something you’d consider supporting or are you all like, “Um, yeah, already gave you money Smucker so hit the road…” Comment on this in the comments section and I’ll send out a free paperback copy of The Day the Angels Fell to one lucky winner because I’d really like to know your honest opinion.

*I initially announced the title for the sequel last week in my newsletter, the one I email out every couple of weeks. If you’d like me to let you know about that kind of fun stuff (newsletter subscribers will be the first folks to see the cover for the new book), you can sign up for the newsletter at the top right of this page. It’s painless. And you can unsubscribe anytime if it starts to feel spammy.

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Help Me Title My Next Book

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I’ve finished the first draft of the sequel to The Day the Angels Fell and I’d love your input on the title. I understand that you have no idea what the book is about yet, but would you answer four questions for me?

1 – Which title do you like better: A) Through Doors We Should Not Open OR B) Into the Grave of Marie Laveau

2 – Which title do you like better: C) Come Let Us Build a Tower OR D) One Third of All the Stars

3 – Which title do you like better: E) The River We All Must Cross OR F) The Edge of Over There

Which of the six do you like best of all?

Feel free to only answer in letters (e.g. ADF-D). Feel free to also give more detailed input as to why you like what you like. Thanks! I can’t wait to tell you more about it.