What if this time of silence and uncertainty is actually an opportunity to reset your life, to strategically realign your priorities to better serve you? Maile and I talk about how this quiet time, this time of doing nothing, going nowhere, has us questioning everything. We talk about preparing for a “return to normal,” but we also hope we have the strength and wisdom to make some serious changes.
Join us as we discuss pressing reset on our lives.
Ten years and five months ago, Maile and I made the biggest move of our lives. I’ve talked about it before, but due to various financial situations and the strange coming together of uncontrollable forces, we had to move from a place we loved back to where I grew up (which was also a place I loved but wasn’t planning on returning to at that point). I didn’t have a job and we had four children and we moved into my parents’ basement. It was a hard time.
The hardest part of that whole show wasn’t living in my parents’ basement–it was rather cozy, kind of like a hobbit hole. And the hardest part wasn’t starting over again at 34, although that was tough. The hardest part wasn’t even the $60,000 in debt or getting through that first Christmas or scrapping for various part-time jobs or selling as much as we could.
The hardest part was the unknown.
We just didn’t know what was going to happen next. Would I ever get a job? Would writing projects come in? Would we ever be able to get our own place? How long until I figured it out?
Every day, every hour, every stinking minute, I had to grab control of my brain and bring it back into the present.
Do what you can now.
Focus on this moment.
Live in the present.
The only way I could keep from spiraling into a really dark place was by simply enjoying whatever it was I was doing in the moment: playing Candy Land with the kids or reading a book or working on a story or taking a walk with Maile. The future had too many variables, each of which felt way out of my control.
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I’m not saying we shouldn’t be thinking ahead or trying to plan or make arrangements for what we’re going to do when this virus thing passes. But I am saying that it’s not helpful to permanently set up emotional camp in the future, to try dealing with all possible scenarios, to worry and worry and worry about how long this thing is going to last or what if that happens or how in the dickens are we going to get through this without losing our minds.
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Leo calls for me from the bathroom. He needs me to wipe his butt. This is one of the parts of parenting we don’t talk about very much. Or at all. And mostly I think we should probably keep it that way–the less talk of wiping kids’ butts, the better, as far as I’m concerned.
Except for after I helped him out and he washed his hands and we were leaving the bathroom, he looked up at me and said, in his most sincere voice, “Dad, I love this day.”
Why would he say that?
Why wouldn’t he say that? We have plenty of food. He’s getting to spend time with the whole family, as much time as he wants. We go to the park. We play more games than usual. We’re eating dinner together every single night. He has his own personal butt-wiper.
I love this day.
This day. This day of uncertainty and viruses and plunging markets and economic shadows and elections and books to sell and all of that.
I love this day.
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The weeks ahead can look long and uncertain. They might be long. Who knows. There are those among us for whom this sickness poses a significant threat, and that cannot be diminished, not if we’re going to love our neighbors as ourselves, not if we’re going to take care of each other.
But Leo’s words have been sticking in my head.
Dad, I love this day.
Those words open my eyes to the goodness of this day. And they also open my eyes and my heart to wanting to make this day good for those around me, for my neighbors, for my friends, for all of us isolated in our little spheres, dealing with our own emotions and problems and fears and uncertainties.
Let’s be there for each other.
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When we were preparing to move north ten years and six months ago, Maile heard God’s voice in a way she never had before. It was like this pulsating thought in her mind, so strong she is certain it did not come from her own being. And in that moment God said…
“Maile, this is a gift.”
A gift.
“Well,” she replied, before rolling over and going back to sleep. “It’s a pretty shitty gift.”
But without that incredibly hard time, we wouldn’t have experienced much of the amazing things we’ve experienced in the last ten years, things I wouldn’t trade for anything. Would we have had our final two kids without going through that? Would I have written any of my books or met any of these amazing writing friends?
Ever since then, when hard times come, I wonder.
Could it be possible that this is a gift?
* * * * *
Dad, I love this day.
Check out our latest podcast episode, this one with award-winning author Devi Laskar. Her main message? Don’t quit. Keep going. You can listen HERE.
This morning I’m sitting at our dining room table amazed at how quickly life can change. Not even two weeks ago I was in Nashville, giving away ARCs of These Nameless Things, hanging with friends, having the ashes placed on my forehead and, eyes closed, listening to the priest say those words that suddenly have even deeper meaning:
From dust you have been made, and to dust you shall return.
Now we sit quietly in our house. Poppy and Leo bury Playmobil characters in kinetic sand. Sam sits at the end of the table, reading. Cade and Lucy and Abra are still sleeping. Maile returns later this evening from a solo writer’s retreat she’s been on for three days at The Black Barn, working hard on her middle grade novels. I imagine we won’t be leaving the house much for at least the next two weeks—school has been canceled, church services suspended. But we have plenty of food, and I can work from home. Only two of the eight of us have suffered from asthma in the past, so we are mostly low-risk. We are so, so blessed.
I spoke with a friend yesterday who works for a company in the travel industry. It was his responsibility to call 75 drivers and let them know that their business has declined 95%. He was tasked with talking with these drivers and determining who needed work the most. Many of them graciously bowed out, saying they could get by without the work, insisting he give any remaining drives to those who needed the work the most. Others said they live week to week. They’re not sure what they’ll do without the work.
In these times of great uncertainty, there will be opportunities for us to exhibit great kindness. For some of us, this might only mean staying home as much as possible so as not to aid the spread of the virus. For others of us, business owners, it might mean being generous in a way that hurts our pocketbooks. For still others, it might mean being merciful when collecting what is due to us. Or sharing our paper towels. Or checking in on a friend with a quick text message or FaceTime call.
“I wish it need not have happened in my time,” said Frodo. “So do I,” said Gandalf, “and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”
So, today we will sit down together while Lucy plays some music on her guitar. I’ll encourage the kids to write at least a page in their journal. We’ll mark time playing video games and card games and fighting over silly things. I’ll try not to watch the news too much.
In many ways, this is a different world from the one we were living in a week ago, a month ago. But in other ways, it is not so different—we are still all called to think of others before ourselves, to practice mercy and kindness and grace, to replace the toilet paper roll if we use the last of it.
My correspondence with Jen Pollack Michel continues. Here is an excerpt of her letter to me this week:
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I have no idea what the process of writing a novel looks like, but I’m sure there are chapters you’ve abandoned, characters you’ve excised, scenes you’ve written and rewritten. Imagine if you could hold all of it in your hands and feel the weight of your creation in its entirety: the parts that remain as well as the parts that were sloughed off. I think this, too, is part of the creative process. The appraisal of it. It reminds me of God the Creator ending every new day with a kind of backward glance at his work: it’s good.
It’s good to be making in the world, Shawn. Not just for what we make but for how we’re made in the act of making.
What began as a Twitter conversation between two writers on creative work and family life has become an exchange of letters. Here is where Postmarked began:
This week on our podcast, The Stories Between Us, we spoke with Anne Bogel and her husband Will. She’s the founder and creator of the popular site, Modern Mrs. Darcy, as well as the podcast, What Should I Read Next?
She’s also the author of numerous books including her latest, Don’t Overthink It (which released just a few days ago).
Will is the strong silent type mostly in the background who helps make everything happen.
We talk about why Modern Mrs. Darcy became a site primarily about books and reading, how she got the idea for What Should I Read Next?, and what’s on the list of things that they will be working on in the future. Shawn even asks Anne when her first novel is being released. Did she answer? Not really, but she didn’t rule it out, either. Listen HERE.
Maile discloses new life-changing routines. Shawn admits to a certain shopping mall food court obsession. They reveal the creativity book of the month they’ll be discussing over at their Patreon page. And Maile has all the connections.
What’s that? You are wondering how you can help support this podcast? I’m glad you asked! Leave a review of The Stories Between Us wherever you listen to podcasts, and support our Patreon page for only $5 a month!
I know I say this every week, but I think today’s letter from Jen is my favorite:
“Dear Shawn,
. . . I’d love to get your thoughts on something that I recently saw on social media. A husband of someone who had recently published a book posted this: “My wife is far too classy and has more important things to say than to use her platform to constantly try and sell her books. I however, have no class and nothing better to say. I apologize in advance for the next few months (year?). ORDER HER BOOK HERE.” The insinuation was so familiar, so awful. It’s this idea that there’s something suspicious, if not sleazy, about working hard to sell your books. It’s this assumption that the angels among us don’t have too. These tight-lipped saints choose the moral high road—in this case, silence about the books they publish—and their books grow wings and fly into the hands of paying customers.”
What began as a Twitter conversation between two writers on creative work and family life has become an exchange of letters. Here is where Postmarked began:
