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The following discourse used to make me want to ram a Twizzler up someone’s nose:

“Hey, how’s it going?” I would ask.

“Living the dream, man, living the dream,” they’d say.

* * * * *

But now, I am, for lack of a better phrase, “living the dream.”

This is to no credit of my own – the business I ran had stalled for two years straight and Maile and I ran out of money. In fact, we ran out of negative money. So I can’t say that I made this huge leap on my own, look at how smart I was to do it, and now I’m writing for a living.

It was pretty much forced on us.

* * * * *

But what about those of you out there who are also “living the dream”? (yuck, please give me an alternative way of saying that in the comments)

Did you make a conscious choice at some point to do what you had always wanted to do? If so, what did you do to make it happen?

Or did fate force your hand?

Have you ever felt like your soul was wandering around in darkness? Have you ever felt emotionally confused or depressed or overwhelmed with a sense of mourning?

“The dark night of the soul” was a phrase first used by the Spanish mystic St John of the Cross in 16th century.

F. Scott Fitzgerald said that “In the real dark night of the soul it is always three o’clock in the morning, day after day.”

* * * * *

In the book of John a man came to Jesus at night, perhaps because he wanted to avoid the inconvenience of the large crowds that followed Jesus during the day. Perhaps because the man was a Pharisee, and it wouldn’t have been a good career move to be seen with Jesus.

But whatever the reason, for convenience or secrecy, I find it remarkable…that Jesus accepted him. Jesus didn’t berate his laziness or the cowardly nature of his visit, coming under the cover of darkness. In fact, this was one of the first people with whom Jesus shared the purpose of his life:

God sent his son not to condemn the world, but to save the world.

* * * * *

Imagine walking on a path at night. You have a flashlight, but there’s someone walking in front of you who doesn’t, and they keep tripping. Would you walk up behind them and smack them over the head with the light? Would you walk up beside them and shine the light right in their face? Would you just pass them and leave them in darkness once again?

No.

You’d probably walk up and join them, keeping the light low so you didn’t blind them, invite them to walk beside you so that you could both see better.

* * * * *

This makes me wonder: how do I interact with people who come to me during a dark night of their soul? When someone comes to me to mourn, do I mourn alongside them, or do I try to cheer them up? When a friend confides in me about a difficult decision they’ve made (a choice I might see as unhealthy or risky or just plain dumb), do I pound them over the head with the light of truth, or do I walk up beside them, illuminating their path with a loving presence, perhaps even dimming my light at first so that it doesn’t blind them?

* * * * *

The writings of St. John of the Cross make it evident that this dark night through which the saint traveled actually made the light brighter. Without the blackness of night, he would not have been drawn to the burning flame.

If you are in the middle of one of these dark nights of the soul, keep your eyes open. A light will come.

If you have a friend walking in the shadows, move up beside them, put your arm around them, travel with them.

* * * * *

Come out to The Red this week as we talk more about “Night.”

Have you been through a dark night of the soul? What was it that helped you through?

Janet Oberholtzer is an extremely amazing person whose story is full of strength, pain and perseverance. A huge thanks to her for guest-posting here today. You can follow her blog or read about her memoir in the works HERE.

Seven years ago, my husband and I want a change, so we sell everything – house, property, business – and go on a once-in-a-lifetime-year-long trip around the states with our three boys.

Six months into the trip, in the middle of a perfect California day, our sweet adventure comes to an abrupt halt when our motor-home accidentally meets five semi-trucks. Thankfully my husband and boys aren’t hurt.

Unfortunately I am hurt … bad. The kind of bad that not many people survive. The kind of bad you read about in the Reader’s Digest drama stories. I am unconscious. There’s blood, too much blood, flowing from multiple wounds and fractured bones.

I wake up twelve days later to find out I flirted with death for a few days (there are no words to describe hearing that) and that my leg was almost amputated. I find out I had dozens of surgeries and rods, screws and hundreds of staples hold the lower half of my body together. After a week or two, I ask for a journal and a pen … two things I had often used to help process life. I’m sad to discover that between my condition and the pain meds, I can’t write. I can’t even spell words, much less complete a sentence. I spend two months in the hospital, followed by more surgeries and endless hours of physical therapy.

Friends and family offer priceless support … love, help and gifts. Of the gifts, the journals are my favorite (there are many). I run my hand over each cover and look at the bare pages, planning to fill them. Sporadically I pick up a pen … but writing seems to take more energy than I have.

My body recovers better than predicted. My mind and spirit do not recover well. I struggle with the pain, the limitations and the deformed leg I now have. I shove the journals under my bed … they are a painful reminder of the me I lost. I do not like the new me.

Depression sucks and one dark night I decide I’m done. I’m finished. Life hurts too much. I reach for a … pen. I write my obituary.

Something deep inside of me is stirred when I see my obituary. I don’t like it and I don’t like how short it is. I realize I do not want to die, I want to live. But I don’t know how to live with the new me … I need help.

Good counselors help me find my way. Along with other things, they encourage me to return to writing. To be honest and real. They remind me God is big enough to handle anything I write … even my disappointment with life and my anger at him.

Word by word … I ask. I tell. I wonder. I curse. I cry. I grieve. I pray. I breathe.

My body needs exercise and my spirit needs beauty, so I walk at a local lake with a journal in hand. I sit on my favorite bench. Trees, water, birds, moss … it’s all beautiful. I am still and absorb it. I write … some days a few words, other days I fill pages. I find hope. And I find myself again … albeit a new me with a new normal.

People suggest I write a memoir. Knowing what writing does for me, I take on the challenge. Writing a book is harder than I ever imagined it would be. I study writing, go to conferences and critique groups. I quit a hundred times. Finally I have a rough draft … and then the real work begins. I’ve learned good writing happens through rewrites and edits. Oh good Lord, help me!

And that’s where I am today … rewriting, editing and learning more about myself. Some days I’m sick of me, myself and I. Can I write about you now? Yet I must and I will finish my story … word by word. Because words have saved my life too many times not to continue.

Courage is almost a contradiction in terms.  It means a strong desire to live taking the form of readiness to die.  ~G.K. Chesterton

Today my regularly scheduled post can be found over at my friend Andi’s blog (link at the bottom of the page). It’s about writing and life and courage – check it out.

Andi’s got a fabulous thing going over there, writing about art and books, music and life. Her mother passed away on Thanksgiving Day, about 6 weeks ago, so if you’re looking for someone who knows what it’s like to suffer loss and writes about it in a raw, beautiful way, you’ll want to add her blog to your feed reader.

But before I hand over that cherished link, here are three things I’m super-duper excited about these days:

1) We had our first week of “8 Weeks in the Red” and the whole thing was remarkable. If you are looking for a place to safely explore ideas around religion, faith and spirituality, (and you live within driving distance of Gap, PA) you should think about coming.

2) I’ve got a few speaking gigs lined up to talk about my latest book, “83 Lost Sheep,” co-written with Gerry Stoltzfoos. If you’d like me to come to your church to talk about it, let me know.

3) I’m doing a lot of guest posts this month, including visits at AndiLit, Janet Oberholtzer, Crazy Widow, Rachel Held Evans, and The House Studio. I love each of these blogs.

Now head on over to Andi’s blog and check out my guest post on writing and courage.

There are two things I think about when I think of my friend, Gerry Stoltzfoos:

The man has big feet (size 14 to be exact).

The man has an even bigger heart (at least three sizes larger than is good for anyone in this world, where kindness and gentleness are so underrated).

So it was with great nervousness and excitement that I responded to his January, 2010 request to help him write his book.

Let’s do it, I said.

We called it “83 Lost Sheep.”

* * * * *

First of all, let me explain the differences between Gerry and I.

Gerry is a pentecostal, evangelical preacher with a faith even bigger than his feet.

I am a postmodern, introverted, nondenominationalist who rarely is comfortable being certain about anything.

Gerry spends his life caring for people – not church people or Christians or holy people. Just people.

I spend most of my days sitting in front of my keyboard, putting one…word…in…front…of…the…other.

But somehow we came together and created a book based on Gerry’s teaching of Luke 10, when Jesus sends out his disciples. “His instructions to them: the Harvest is so great, but the workers are so few…” I think the teaching is compelling, interesting, even inspiring. Hopefully the writing has captured Gerry’s over-sized heart.

* * * * *

It’s a book of stories, mostly, about the beginnings of churches (Gerry is passionate about starting new churches). He also talks about why fifty years ago so many people found value in, and attended, church. Yet today so few people go anymore.

But my favorite part is in Chapter 8 (a chapter entitled, “It’s About Blessing, Stupid”):

Want to know why most parents can’t influence their teenagers?

They criticize their kids’ music.

They criticize their kids’ clothes.

They criticize their kids’ friends.

They criticize their kids’ choice of career.

They criticize EVERYTHING about their kids! And then they wonder why they have no influence.

Pastors want to know why no one comes to their church.

Often it’s because in subtle ways, and in big ways, they put people down. No one wants to hang around that – it doesn’t matter how good of a speaker you are. The bottom line? People will not go to a place that makes them hate themselves. They’re not coming back.

I’m not saying that preachers have to water down their messages – even fire and brimstone preachers can be good at it, if they help the listener feel redeemable. But being an endless critic will get you nowhere. This is precisely why we’re not influencing our world today. The first thing the world thinks about when they hear “Christian” is the list of things they think we’re against:

Swearing.

Homosexuality.

Abortion.

Liberalism.

Alcohol.

Smoking.

Fun.

Until the world feels complimented and blessed by us, we will never have influence.

* * * * *

If the path the church is on interests you, if you like thinking about how the church can get back on track, or if you like to read a great speaker telling insightful stories, then this is a must read.

You can find out more about it HERE.

You can order the audio version HERE.

You can order the paperback on Amazon, and if you’ve read it you can use that link to go and leave a review, for which I would be eternally grateful (or at least grateful until next week).

Or if you live close to Gap, PA, send me an email (shawnsmucker@yahoo.com). I’d be happy to deliver a signed copy to your door for $15.00.

I heard a “seasoned” journalist on the radio the other day dismiss blogging.

“If you are a writer, why would you do it for free?” he scoffed.

What do you think? If you’re a blogger (and you don’t get paid to do it), why do you blog?

And if you don’t blog, where is the strangest place you found a stink bug this winter? Ours was melted into candle wax. Also, a group of them huddled around our furnace’s pilot light and put it out.