Through a Writer's Eyes

Writing and More Writing

2012-01-13T06:31:00.000-06:00

It’s odd to me that I am not writing more now that I have more time. It seems when I was rushing about, taking classes and working that I had more time to write. I was made to write then, though, and now it’s all my own free choice. Creative writing was a relief when academics forced me to write what I thought.

And now I keep choosing to do other things. Unimportant or important things, but other things.

Funny, though, the words don’t go away. They fall out of my creativity in e-mails and notes and conversations.

They float around my car while I’m driving, “I have an idea!” They shout. “How would you describe that sky?” They ask. “Who lives in that house?” They question.

It would be nice if they could just behave. It would be nice if they would just wait until I’m unwinding at night. They could remind me of their existence and I would throw them into my laptop. Mix them around some. Let them hang out some. Give them form and purpose.

But that’s when they rest.

I need a good long writing day. I need some time at a coffee shop with a cuppa tea and a window and a cast of characters strolling by. A time when rambly words can be brought to task and placed on paper to help someone else understand someone else.

I have come to the conclusion that writing is an inconvenient art. It can’t be kept inside the lines. Stories are everywhere. It’s a writer’s curse to draw the stories and corral the words so others might see what we see.

I’m a writer, that’s a fact. It makes my world an interesting place. Of all the gifts God could have given me, this is the one He chose. I wear the burden of my art with a sense of responsibility. It is not enough for me to simply write. I feel my words need to encourage, uplift, build bridges of empathy and sympathy. Words have great power to bring life and death. I want my words to bring life.

Perhaps that's the real key to my lack of writing. I fear the sharing of the real words and won't let shallow phrases take their place.

And so the words push and pull my attention waiting for the time I cannot hold them still.

NOTE TO OTHER WRITERS: Don’t forget the writing contest. See my post of December 30 to get the details.

To order The Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges or A Friend Named Jesus, please e-mail me at imnewkris@yahoo.com.

Calling All Writers!

2011-12-30T12:57:00.000-06:00

Ok friends of mine..... I know sometimes we need a muse to write about and I know sometimes we need a kick in the pants to get us moving.... so... here is a bit of both!

One of my favorite writers, Mark Showalter, is hosting a blog contest. I have been privileged to be asked to help judge the entries. Below is the post from his blog (mshowalter.wordpress.com) which gives all the details.

I ask one thing of you. If you are a friend of mine, please submit your post Anonymously. If I know a writer who has submitted, I will have to bow out of judging your entry. That's okay, but I would selfishly like to see everyone's submissions.

Drop me a line if you have any questions.

Write On!

Kris

Blog Post Contest

In April 2010, I started writing and publishing an online Blog tilted, “Mark Showalter’s Blog.” What inspired me to start writing and publishing my thoughts and inspirations was another Blog that I began following in late 2009. During that time of my life, I had many doubts and questions surrounding my relationship with God and the church. The Blog posts more often than not were exactly what I needed at the time. After reading and being fed by them for about five months I began to feel God impressing me to write and publish my own Blog.
At first I argued with God. I reminded Him that I had never written anything for the public to read nor did I have any formal training in the art of writing. I felt extremely under-qualified, and thought, “Nobody would ever want to read or would be fed by anything I wrote!” I reminded God that He had far better people out there who were much more qualified to write and publish a Blog than I was.

But God wouldn’t let up. He reminded me that my salvation isn’t all about me and that “He” is the one that is the giver of good gifts! I began to think, “What if this Blogger that I now enjoy would never have published their thoughts? What other form of help would God have to find me? What if everybody denied God because they felt inadequate or under-qualified? Sure, we would still have the Bible, and wasn’t that written by just a few ordinary men? However, even the Ethiopian Eunuch, when reading the scripture, needed Phillip to help him understand what God’s Word was trying to tell him. And wasn’t Peter just a regular guy with a moderate education!? He wrote two books of the Bible! So, if God could move on some ordinary men to make an extraordinary difference, why couldn’t I do the same?”

This is when I decided to write and publish an online Blog. Since April 2010, I’ve written just over forty-one posts. I’ve been honest, open, and best of all transparent. I know that in a world of so many people trying to hide, out of shame or fear, who they really are, I had to be honest. As a result, I’ve received numerous comments or email responses from people dealing with issues including suicidal thoughts, manic depression, and divorcing their spouse. Others issues mentioned were believing that God had failed them or that they had failed God, while others have felt like the promises God made them could never come to pass. All of these hopeless people felt that due to major failures or sins, they had resolved to live a life of empty church going with no hope of ever being used by God again. Honestly, the list truly goes on and on with numerous accounts of hopelessness, regrets, fears and doubts. But God has been faithful to help! Through the posts, many have received the answers and hope they needed to face the situation once more, and now, they KNOW God is on their side and has never given up on them.

More recently I’ve felt like God is wanting others to speak out and be an encouragement. Problem is, most don’t know how to do so, or even how to get started. This is where the “Blog Post Contest” comes into play. Most, if not challenged, will never really step out and do anything unordinary. So, this is your challenge, your chance, to be heard, to express your thoughts, but best of all, “overcome the Devil by the word of your testimony.”

Below are a list of guidelines that will help you to get started.

Twelve winners will be posted
1. Of all the posts submitted, twelve will be posted over the next twelve months. The last and final Post will be posted on January 2013.
2. The first Post will be posted on February 6, 2012, (That will allow us enough time to read and pick the twelve Posts that will be posted.)

Rules for entering Post
1. All Posts must be submitted by January 14, 2012.
2. Post must be less than 1,000 words but more than 500.
3. Posts can be any form: fiction, non-fiction, poetry, devotion or creative prose.
4. The post must be written by the one submitting it. (May be submitted using another’s email, but must be clearly stated as such)
5. Must have Biblical references, and be sound in doctrine. (Can be a personal story or life principle, but must have 6. scriptural thought and reference to back it up.)
6. Your post must include a small letter of permission stating that you give us permission to judge and post your Post in my Blog. It also must include your full name and date.
7. Your post may remain anonymous if you so choose. (You can state that in your letter of permission to post your Blog Post. Your confidence will remain with me only!)
8. Posts will be judged upon the above – regardless of age, race, gender or religious affiliation.
9. We reserve the right to make corrections and alterations to your Post. (Only to correct any grammatical or spelling errors we may find. We will not change or alter the message or thought in any way.)
10. All posts should be submitted to blogpostentry@yahoo.com

All Posts will be read and winners determined by three People:
Mark Showalter (Blog Host)
Kris A. Newman (Author and Publisher)
Christina Li (Author and Publisher)

NOTE: Winning posts will be published on the following Blog sites:
Mark Showalter’s Blog – mshowalter.wordpress.com
Through a Writer’s Eyes – krisanewman.blogspot.com
ChristinaLiBooks—christinalibooks.wordpress.com

Get writing and watch how God inspires you.

A Friend Named Jesus

2011-12-18T17:20:00.000-06:00

My second book is about to hit the world. Second. The one after the first. I can’t really quite believe it.

It’s old and new mixed together telling the story of seasons, of life, of a walk with Jesus. It’s my stories and words and tells about stuff I see. It’s smarmy and meant to mostly be a way to send a message of grace to Followers of Christ. It’s true. I wrote for an audience. I don’t know if they will like it and I’m really not sure anyone who doesn’t label themselves Christian will find any value in it. I didn’t intentionally set out to offend anyone or disenfranchise anyone, but the words fell where they belonged and I couldn’t take them out.

I like some of it. I enjoyed writing much of it. Like all of my ramblings, a genuine mix of laughter and tears fell through my hands as the stories grew. Simplicity and complexity are woven among the lines dragging the reader from one place to another.

I’ve received amazingly gracious reviews from the first book. I hope this books finds a similar reception. I hope people grow from it and see how easy it is to live for Jesus through really tough times. I also hope that Christians see how deeply important it is to show love to others – regardless of how “fine” they are on the outside. Follow this link: Love One Another and see just a few verses about the necessity of loving.

It’s Christmas. Don’t know what to give someone? How about a little love? Easier than you think. Even easy to wrap. I generally use words and arms to wrap mine. A Friend Named Jesus won’t hit your mailbox in time, but love has no timeline.

Merry Christmas and a blessed New Year, friends! Thanks for sharing the journey with me.

Second Book, Much Like the First

2011-11-19T10:43:00.000-06:00

Anyone who would like to place an advance order for my second book - A Friend Named Jesus - can do so by a quick note to my e-mail at imnewkris@yahoo.com. I will let you know an expected ship date and where to send payment. Also let me know if you would like a signed copy - which will take a little longer. Cost is $15 (plus shipping).

This book is about seasons of life and how a follower of Christ sees them. From the freshness of spring, the busy-ness of summer, the stillness of autumn and the quiet of winter God is unchanging. Like my first book, it is a collection of short stories, poems and reflections. Some of them you have read here on the blog, others were written many years ago - as far back at 1988.

To whet your appetite, many readers requested an account of Lisa's version of A Night at the Theater. As fictional as the first, A Night in the Audience tells Lisa's story.

Below is a sneak-peek:

A Night in the Audience

***

Protected by the leather about her, she huddled in her seat hoping he wouldn’t know she was there. She wondered if her Day Class peers would fill the front row or be seated elsewhere. She hoped she would recognize the professor, so as to assure her attendance would be noted. She wished she could have been at the performance with her Week-End classmates, but she would be busy getting divorced when they were in the audience.

Lisa was startled by a deep bass voice suddenly beside her, “Good evening.”

“Hello,” she responded politely.

“I believe you may be in my seat,” he stated quietly.

A Writing Day

2011-10-29T09:42:00.000-05:00

Today is a writing day. It has arrived.

The day when I get the words from my mind to the paper that will tell Lisa's story of her night in the audience. I'm sure you're not surprised since it was you who asked again and again about Lisa and her view of the play that night.

So. Today that's what I'll write.

And I'll work a bit on the cover and add everyone's corrections into the manuscript. Then.... then.... I think the second book will be ready for typesetting. Not by November 1st as I had hoped. But sometimes the words aren't ready and so we must wait.

While you're waiting, so you don't think I've forgotten you, here is a re-print of a previous post to help you understand the way of words.

Stay tuned. A book may be soon ready for your enjoyment!

=================

Originally Posted: Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Words Dancing Across My Page

So. Here I am. At Dunn Bros. Writing. Because I can.

It’s a new season, I think.

Surrounded by a babble of familiar voices I have never heard. Encased by familiar buildings I’ve never ventured within. Sipping tea and tapping my heart.
But with a new sense of purpose. A new sense of identity.

The barista said, “I can’t write.”

I answered, “oh, I’m sorry. I can’t not write.”

His co-worker laughed in complicity. He understood.

Words don’t leave me even when I’m trying to leave them. I don’t always like my words, you know. I wish they would leave me alone and let me just go on without being so pushy, forceful, demanding.

And so I’m listening to writers talk about issues and friends talk about relationships and I’m letting the words have their way. Like a wild horse let loose to run in the field.

There go the words. Free. Beautiful in their own confidence. Not as if they had ever been reined in and made to walk properly. I can almost see the wind following behind them as they frolic.

I’m really enjoying listening to the writers talk about writing. I wonder what they would say if they knew I was writing about their words, about their thoughts. I think they wouldn’t mind. After all, writers like to be heard. That’s the point of writing.

Well, maybe not the point, actually. But the impetus, the thing that pushes us to the paper. The thing that wakes us in the morning with a song suddenly waiting to be written. The thing that pushes paper to pen – whether the paper is a napkin or the back of a bulletin or a scrap tossed aside and the pen is a pencil or is black or blue or orange. The words don’t always have to be heard, but they must always be recorded, left behind.

Now the writers are discussing a poem and the memories to which it belongs. It makes me think of the bridge at Jackson Park that I just visited. I tried to explain the bridge to someone who didn’t really understand. He tried, but the connection was too ethereal, too disconnected, too much water color and not enough pen and ink.

I wonder if my words are heard like that by most people. Do they float too quickly beyond what people expect to hear? Expect to see? Do they require more definition and people don’t want to work that hard to understand? Or are the ideas and the topics too personal and don’t translate well?

I don’t know if anyone will ever want to read my ramblings, but I still can’t not write. The words live on their own and grow at their own pace.

Mostly, honestly, I do enjoy them.

Like I enjoy sitting here listening to the writers talk about writing and the friends talk about relationships and the students talk about classes while the jazz softly plays and the tea cools.

I’m a writer. And I write because I can’t not.

Autumn Words

2011-10-11T19:54:00.000-05:00

Golden drops of promise swirl about my feet crunching my steps refusing to hide me.

I do rather like autumn. The Indian Summer week for sure! It's been in the 70s and almost 80 the last week or so.

Good for walking. Good for thinking. Good for living. Not good for writing.

Who wants to sit inside with the blinking lights begging for morsels of adjectives when the last eeks of summer are taunting?

Not this girl.

So I haven't written much and I haven't read much and I haven't taken the miasma of thoughts and given them form. They are there, though, I promise. Waiting and wondering when they will be seen.

I had thought the second book would be ready for print by November 1st. It may still. It needs a good Saturday rain to get finished, polished, perfected. The cover isn't right. It wants more... I don't know.... splashes or flashes or something like that. Some of the words are awkward. They don't sit right on the page. They need more balance, more agility, more time.

Remember last year about this time? I struggled with crossing the writer's bridge. The one that links the private thoughts to the public domain. That bridge. Most of you didn't know I stood at the brink of retraction. I almost didn't put it out there.... but then, all of sudden, with a life of its own... the book was done.

The words sat tight. The pictures reflected deeply. The cover hummed.

I'm not afraid of the bridge this year. The audience response from the first book gives me courage. I don't know why God uses my words, but I'm sure He does. He links my life's struggles and joys to others. They are hither and yon, these readers who read me. My words pull them over their own bridges. My experiences give them peace despite conflict.

I know the book is almost ready. Just not quite. Like the last bit of leaves that sit snugly on the maple refusing to fall, the final touches are holding out for just the right wind to give them flight.

And all the while.... golden drops of promise swirl about my feet crunching my steps refusing to hide me.

Silence

2011-09-24T00:19:00.000-05:00

I don't generally post poetry here, but I thought you might like another sneak peek into the next book. I'm waiting still for a couple of editors' thoughts, but I still plan to have something available for purchase by November 1, 2011. Still can't quite believe it. What a year it's been! Hope you like the bit below and hope it makes you wonder at what else is in store.

Thanks for sharing the journey with me!

==================================

When one’s world is

Silent

The weight of words

Is skewed

Enhanced

Magnified.

They shout

Suddenly

“hey!”

“I love you”

“where were you?”

“see you!”

And you wonder at

Your value to the

Speaker

And your value

To the world

Because

In the absence of sound

No one greets

tells

asks.

There is only

Quiet.

Loud, astoundingly thick, heavy, suffocating

Silence.

And then you realize the

Void of sound

Is greatly noticed.

Unless

You listen.

If you are listening

To the sound of silence

With an open heart

And a clear mind

You may hear in your heart and mind

The Shepherd’s voice.

He says

His sheep know His voice.

He calls them

by name.

Ears of faith

Tuned to past words

Spoken, read, remembered.

I answer again and again

“Here am I, Lord.”

Wrapping me in grace

He speaks.

Shrouding me with peace

He speaks.

Filling the quiet with abundance

He shouts!

1 Kings 19:12 Amplified Bible (AMP)

^“12And after the earthquake a fire,

but the Lord was not in the fire;

and after the fire [a sound of gentle stillness and] a still, small voice.”

Now that the earthquake and fire

Have shaken and burned

All that was,

Teach me, Lord.

Help me hear.

Don’t let me despise

This season.

And the Award for Versatile Blogger Goes to.....

2011-09-15T06:16:00.000-05:00

.... ME! *smile*

One of the advantages of the Platform Builder Campaign is meeting so many, many new writers. Another is the awards we share. Through a Writer's Eyes has just received a Versatile Blogger Award.

Thanks to Elizabeth Anne at http://elizabethannewrites.com/2011/09/13/im-a-versatile-blogger/ for expanding my borders. She is a successful author of children's books who shares her experiences through her blog. These are the kind of connections I treasure.

The rules for accepting the award are as follows:

1. Thank the person who gave you the award and link back to them in your post.

2. Share 7 things about yourself.

3. Pass this Award along to 15 recently discovered blogs and let them know about it.

Since I just did a list about me, I'm going to limit the 7 things to 7 types of books/writing that I like the best.

1. All time favorite book is The Outsiders. Still cry when Dally is shot....

2. One of my favorite authors is Tolstoy - and I have been to his house in Moscow!

3. I love to read biographies. Nicolas Sparks, Tolstoy, and James Dean all live in my memories because of their biographies.

4. Poetry makes me introspective. I have been lost in Thoreau for days. I don't memorize it, so don't ask for a quote. I just dawdle over the phrases and luxuriate in their turns.

5. Light fiction and romance novels are not my favorite types of reading. They bore me and make me think, "someone got paid to write that....."

6. The Bible is the richest piece of literature I have ever explored and I never tire of it.

7. I collect old books and have found them to be the best forms of mental escape.

Now, passing the award along to 15 recently discovered blogs. I have included some who I regularly follow to open up their readership and some I have recently discovered. There are some greater writers out there of so many different genres. Stop around their pages and let me know if you find a new one to follow.

1. Mark Showalter’s Blog – Always Seeking to Know God More – Life lessons and perspectives taught in a transparent, simple way. My favorite “teaching” blog. You can find it here: http://mshowalter.wordpress.com

2. Ninetyandnine.com – The first writing gig, the first blog invite, the place to connect with other readers and writers: http://ninetyandnineword.blogspot.com/

3. Seth Boyte – One of my favorite musicians is also one of my favorite writers. His blog is here: http://sethboyte.blogspot.com/2011/08/piano-student-christians.html

4. Rachel is a writer who connects writers. She is a great example of all that’s right in the writer community. Her blog is here: http://rachaelharrie.blogspot.com/

5. Courtney Pearson writes when not parenting, although I’m guessing a lot of her writing comes from her parenting. She is in the process of publication. You would enjoy her stuff. Here is where to find her: http://cortneypearson.blogspot.com

6. K.T. Hanna writes about writing, freestyling the process to share the hows and dos and pains and glories of writing. It’s a great connection that makes you feel like you (and she) know what you’re doing and it’s going to be great! She is found here: http://www.kthanna.com

7. A fellow fan of Natasha Bedingfield, Amanda shares “twisted truth” which seems to me funner more than twisted. Judge for yourself: http://amandastwistedtruths.blogspot.com

8. Gary Gauthier explores literature in a fascinating way. Find out how here: http://garygauthier.blogspot.com

9. Kelly is my long lost friend who started the whole Writer Platform Builder Campaign stage of my life and so her blog must be included here. Her work is full of real life and you will LOVE it. Promise. Find it here: http://clickerbug.wordpress.com

10. Diane lets us follow her through many of the places she has been. He work is full of the patient dreaming of her heart. Find it here: http://thepatientdreamer.wordpress.com

11. Sharon is a great friend who writes about the season of life she is in. She transplanted to Florida to help her elderly parents and tells of their trials and smiles along the way. Find her experiences here: http://oldpeopleandme-sharon.blogspot.com

12. Sometimes people need to speak their onions! To get the courage to say what you’re thinking, check out Kristin’s blog here: http://moosateleven.blogspot.com

Three more? I think this is where I’m going to break the rules. Not only am I not going to come up with three more (since there really are not three more I have found that I am ready to recommend - I don't take this lightly, you know), I’m also not going to require recipients to post the same. If you have a list of blogs you read, please do share them. If you prefer not to, that’s ok. I will love you the same.

I will ask you to do the list. *smile* AND I will ask you check out the blogs above. I think you’ll like them. A lot. I do. I love hearing what’s happening in other places and how people relate to the world. My world is very small right now and so I love this avenue of learning and sharing.

So that’s it. A long, superfluous post! Happy Thursday!

Unwritten

2011-09-09T08:08:00.000-05:00

Below is a piece from my next book, expected to be published this fall. It's fitting to let you peek at it now. The book is divided into seasons. This piece fits well in the autumn section, I think. What do you think?

Enjoy!

=====================================

Thinking about unwritten books, unspoken words, unthought emotions. They sit there, beneath the surface waiting for the right pen to come along and begin the sentence. Or maybe it’s not even the pen, but the words that are unavailable. These ideas that need something to give them life. These emotions that need someone to give them purpose. They sit there buried under reality and wish for someone to dig a little deeper, ask another question, see a little more clearly.

Instead. They stay unwritten, unspoken, unthought.

But felt. Clearly.

I can’t help but wonder, where is God? Has He left me after all this time?

Now when my world is falling apart? My paradigms are shifting? My words are pushed back at me?

I keep wishing that the words under my skin would find some way to be released. That they would find someone to hear them. That someone would care enough to remove the wall, brick by brick, and allow the words to breathe.

I’m afraid of failure. I’m afraid that if I open myself up, I’ll only find myself vulnerable and hurt. I’m afraid that if I try to speak, I’ll not find an unresponsive listener, but I’ll find ridicule. And so I swallow the words and put the pen away and close the book.

I’d rather keep them to myself than risk their exposure to taunting.

But that Voice deep inside says to be open, to share these words, to be an open book.

I pray aloud, “Can you tell me, please, if anyone wants to hear, then? Can you tell me, please, if I’m just to carry all of this emotion alone for all my life? Would the words be shushed if they were shared?”

See? That’s why I close the book, put the pen away and swallow the words.

But the words push themselves to the surface over and again. Unwilling to remain unseen.

If only I knew someone would listen. I would share my words. I would describe the cacophony of sound I see and sing the colors that dance around me. I would write in great detail and wondrous prose the events and times and lives that shape my world. I would leave a legacy. A written record. A history.

But no one really seems to want to hear.

Or perhaps, I am not looking far enough or deep enough or soft enough.

From a distance, I hear again, the Voice of my Lord, “Be still and know. Give and it shall be given. “ And peace fills the void and silence is stilled.

The Door Swung Open.....

2011-09-05T08:08:00.000-05:00

The first writer's challenge of the campaign asked for a 200 word story beginning with the words, "The door swung open" and ending with the words, "the door swung shut." Below is my piece. How long does it take for you to figure out who she is and what she is looking for?

Enjoy!

=================================================

The door swung open, silently.

She looked carefully at every inch before her. Over the counter, around the cupboards, beside the appliances. Nothing.

Instincts tightened, senses heightened, she took one step, then another. She knew, she absolutely knew something was there.

Perhaps what she heard was something else? Someone instead of something?

But, no. She knew exactly what it was. It was hiding now, but she would find it. She knew every nook and cranny of this room. The precisely lined containers along the marble countertop would reveal, not conceal. The mirror-like, spotless stainless steel refrigerator and stove reflected nothing.

Slinking, she moved again. The Italian tiles were smooth, cool beneath her feet and absorbed her steps. Carefully she peeked around the corner.

There it was; clearly cloaked in fear, trembling.

She strode across the floor, then, confidently swaggering. With great disdain she looked down upon the mouse like a mighty hunter about to take its prey. Eyes narrowed, she licked her lips, twitched her whiskers and tail in unison. “Too small,” she thought.

Emboldened by fear, the mouse made one last ditch effort to escape. It jumped into action, skidded gracelessly through the opening and the door swung shut.

Ten Things

2011-09-02T17:53:00.000-05:00

Well, this whole campaign and reading what everyone else is writing has done wonders for my motivation. That's a fact. Those of you who know me will find this list redundant. Those new friends I have connected with, may find it a bit eclectic.

But since Kelly lured me into this and Kelly has just posted ten things about her, I thought I'd see if I can find ten things about me to say. Not sure how this will go....

1. I was raised in foster care. That's an important fact about me. It says how I view relationships, money, time, responsibility and family. Please don't assume any negatives from my experience. There are so many more positives that they far outweigh what might have been. I had amazingly good foster parents. I hope my life honors their memory.

2. I love to read. All kinds of books. Always have. L'Amour to Paul to Tolstoy to Fitzgerald to Castle. Biographies are my favorites, but I read all sorts of random things.

3. I hate guns. It's my right as a patriotic American to hate guns. Think what you will. Tell me again that guns don't kill people..... I hate guns. Hunting rifles used to feed your family, that's different. I mean handguns and machine guns. The kind of weapons only used to take life. They only brings sadness - whether they kill someone or not.

4. I love Jesus. I am an outspoken born-again believer in the name of Jesus. True story. I try to follow His teachings and live to please Him. I don't know if I'm a very good Christian, but I try.

5. I have four official angelbabies and many, many more extras. Angelbabies are grandchildren. They call me Bapka (Polish for Grandmother according to Google translations). They make me smile constantly.

6. I love kids. I have two sons and one daughter-in-law, but have been adopted by a wide range of kids - some barely younger enough to be my children. They are all colors of the rainbow and come from many cultures. I love them each individually and am proud to be owned by them.

7. This is getting tougher.... Let's see.... I am a writer. I suppose you already know that. It took me a long time to believe my 7th grade English teacher who first labeled me. I think I was 40 when I started to call myself a writer. I was 44 when I published my first book.

8. I am divorced. That's hard for me to remember, too. I know I'm not married, but it's hard to remember why sometimes. Mental block, I suppose. It's an important fact about me, but I don't always advertise it.

9. My bucket list has a lot of traveling on it. I love to go places and meet new people. I like to see the world through their eyes and experience their lifestyle. Such an amazing diversity in our world.

10. My house decorating theme is "My Stuff." Strewn about the walls and bookshelves and floor and cabinets are stories collected from people who have crossed my path. Grandma's PianoOrgan, books from friends long gone, Angelbaby toys, gifts from my sons who were once little boys, pictures of my sister and I. It's my stuff. It's not much, but it tells the story of me.

There! I did it! Ten things about me. Well, if you are still reading, thanks! Now.... tell me about you. At least tell me where you are from and how you found this writer's words.

Writer's Platform Building Campaign

2011-08-31T05:37:00.000-05:00

Just a quick note to let you know you may see some changes around here.

No, nothing major. I'm not moving to NYC and I haven't gotten the "call" from a publishing house. Not yet today anyway....

But I have joined a campaign which will link me to many other writers. I hope they leave comments and I hope you enjoy the new friendships we are about to make. I know they will help me hone this skill God has given me.

I have also added a couple of things to our main page. If you scroll down the right a bit you'll see some of your favorite posts. Well, they are someone's favorite. They are the things that people have read the most. I thought adding them there might make them easier to find if you suggest them to someone else to read. I've also added a gadget which shows the all-time page hits to our page. You will know you aren't alone in reading my ramblings.

Drop me a note. Let me know what you think. After all, as a writer I must write, but as a blogger, it's good to know there are readers.

Happy Wednesday, Friends! Carpe Diem!

Thank You, Again

2011-08-27T13:47:00.002-05:00

I wrote and posted the piece below two years ago. Doesn't seem like so much time has passed. I feel the same way today, only stronger.

I saw the video clip of the dog who mourned at the casket of his brave owner who gave his life protecting American freedoms, my freedoms. It got me to thinking, again, about the price paid.

This is a special re-post to thank those in uniform who make it so I can go to the church of my choice on Sunday and worship as I please. A thanks for letting me be an educated woman, free to read and speak as I choose. A thanks for making a place where my sons can become men of honor wherever their talents and hearts take them.

I love being American. I appreciate the price paid.

To my Uncle, retired Navy, my cousin, retired Marine, and the "kids" of mine who serve proudly today - thank you.

To those who go in when fire pushes everyone else out. To those who lose countless hours of sleep trying to figure out who is selling drugs to the latest juvenile overdose victim. To those who risk their lives to keep the peace. To those who race off to the latest tragedy to try to save one more life today....

Thank you for taking care of us. This planet doesn't hold enough to pay you.

To the Police, Fire and Rescue professionals - thank you.

Pass it on.

Friday, September 11, 2009

September 11th - 8 years Later

I wasn't there. I didn't see the planes or smell the dust or hear the screams or the agnonizing silence.

Safely tucked away in the Midwest where nothing bad like that ever happens, I listened in horror. The radio newscaster's voice broke as he tried to relay information about unreal events. It sounded like a bad Hollywood movie, but it was real.

This time it wasn't Jerusalem or Belfast or Seoul. It was happening in our country. The United States of America.

Someone had the audacity to take advantage of our trust. The idea that everyone here from wherever they came could learn to become whoever they wanted to be.

No one expected that would mean that a would-be pilot would destroy instead of build.

Over the years I have spoken with New Yorkers about what this meant to them. They tell of their sorrow, who they knew, how they got out, where they were. They never tire of the telling and I'm grateful.

We can't forget this.

Not so we become angry, refusing to allow "foreigners" to learn new trades. Not so we become suspicious of everyone who looks like someone who might have been involved.

So we can be wary, alert, cautious and protect not only our country from this violence - but other countries as well.

This time it was New York City. It's true. How did we feel?

Many, many times in my lifetime it's has been Beirut, Kabul, Seoul, Belfast, Jersusalem. Lockerbie, Moscow. How do they feel?

What can we as human beings do to lessen the violence in our world? What would Jesus do?

Finding Loss

2011-08-14T09:31:00.000-05:00

I have seen too much loss in the last couple of weeks. Big losses. Wake-up-and-think-about-them-again losses. Nothing –you-can-do-to-change-it losses.

Life, mostly, but not only.

I have a friend who is getting a divorce. I understand the good and bad that melt together in that season and it makes me sad. I want to get her past those days into the next season. The one where she will be re-building, re-identifying herself and her purpose. I want her to get to the season where she feels good about herself again, full of confidence and hope.

But I can’t. She is in the deleting season and it must be lived to get to the next place.

So I pray and ask God to help her through.

I have another friend whose only child was diagnosed with leukemia and then gone in three weeks time. Three long, life-filled, overwhelming weeks.

The obituary would say some lovely words about his being a husband and father, perhaps make mention of his new, exciting business. But there aren’t enough words to describe how much this man meant to his family. He was healthy, strong, young just at the cusp of making a deep impression on the world. And now he’s gone. I have cried many tears for this young man and for his father, my friend. I don’t understand why some things happen. It makes me sad.

So I pray for my friend and his family and hope they see God stringing the threads together to make them stronger.

The tragedy undermines the heaviness of the other sad news – my friend whose twins were born much too soon. Struggling for life in a plastic cube an hour away from all of their family, they begin this life alone, together, and I pray for their miracles to build mountains for them. On the same day, my son was diagnosed with a troublesome, bothersome, persistent condition that will complicate things for him when he least expects it.

So I pray for them that they will see the gift and not the challenge of life.

Finally, a long time friend is found in his chair. It had been two days since he was last seen. Someone wondered where he was and they found him, sleeping eternally.

My writer’s mind seeks justice to bring balance. Where is God? What is this about? What is He thinking? My logical friends tell me God isn’t really real and I’m clutching straws. Life happens and you just have to deal with it. My education tells me to think it through, write it out, analyze it and set it on a shelf for someone else to think about, write about, analyze.

I have had difficult seasons before. Closer than the one degree of separation of this season. Maybe that’s why this sadness affects me more? I am brought back to other, closer, sadder days.

This circle brings me back to my friend sleeping in his chair. Funny, but I can’t imagine him sitting still. I see him laughing with a bag of groceries in his hand, “I brought some breakfast.” Eggs, potatoes, onions, butter. Not very healthy, but very filling, especially when served with a little flirtatious teasing and a lot of compassion. Stone soup perfected!

I see his youthful strength and confidence. No fear. No failure. Somehow everything would work out allright. Somehow, mostly, it did. Unexpected kind words smoothed the dark days. And laughter. Wow… we laughed in those days. Strains of Janis flitting in the background, living on the underside of poverty with nothing left to lose, we laughed.

We talked much of God in those days. Never doubting His presence, never doubting His grace. Not quite sure about how to apply it and who He would accept, but sure in our knowledge that somehow He would make it allright. He would figure it out. And He did.

Time, distance, more life separated my path from my sleeping friend, but the impressions remained. What we have to give, we ought to give. When we can share a kindness, we should. Laughter does good, like a medicine. Believe in Someone greater than yourself. Trust Him, even when you can’t see Him. Don’t be afraid to love.

I can’t solve the great theological debates to answer the question of where is God in bad days, but I know He is there. His comfort surrounds me. I pray my friends see Him, too, in their dark days. I pray He is tangible to them and they know how much He loves them.

I guess that’s really the writer’s answer to sad days. We pray.

Oddly enough, when I pray, I see the immensely good things that God sends to bring me balance. The flowers picked for me and the little gentlemen whose generosity is outshined only by their shy smiles. The tender touch of angelbabies who just want to be held. The co-workers laughing in complicity over nothing. The warmth of the sun kissing my skin on a perfect summer walk.

Life is life and we just simply must live it. Good and bad jumbled together.

Wanted: Lost Words

2011-07-10T07:48:00.002-05:00

I’m not sure where my words went. Have you seen them? I figured they would inundate me the moment I walked across the stage and got that long awaited diploma cover. I half-expected them to jump out of the rose bushes in the English Garden during my last stroll.

But they didn’t.

They are frighteningly quiet.

Well, I shouldn’t say frighteningly or completely quiet.

I have heard some whispers in the distance.

Sappy, syrupy, sashaying phrases tripping over the clouds and whisping away in the wind.

But I don’t want those words.

And I don’t want the sad ones, either. You know, the ones tucked away in the drawer of memories. I take them out when I want to cry, but I’m so sick of crying.

I need a little laughter and so I’m looking for the guffawing words.

But I don’t know where they went.

It’s not like I don’t have any laughter or funny events or things that make me smile.

I seem to have a plethora.

I mean, have you ever spent ten minutes with Anna the Angelbaby? Oh my word! That girl is guaranteed to make you smile. She is five now, you know, and so she can go to choir, be in children’s church and say stinkin’.

Just like her brother. Who is six. Which makes him every much older. He graduated, too, you know. From kindergarten. He’s kind of a big deal. He plays baseball and got a homerun. That will make any Bapka smile. Broadly.

Don’t even get me started on Arthur and his tendency to pick and choose the people he wants to populate his world. “He is not my friend.” Not haughty, just definite. If you wear the Arthur Stamp of Approval, you are kind of a big deal.

Eli just smiles. All the time. At everything. And hugs so gently and sweetly it has to make you smile.

See? Now you're smiling and I've only talked about my angelbabies. I have kids, too, you know. Those boys of mine are crazy! Forever up to something. Graduation Day, for example. Full of pomp and circumstance. I wanted a nice picture, a formal picture, before the green doors of the chapel. Famous, pompous green doors, by the way.

"Sit up there, Mom," says the younger.

I do, of course. Trying to be dignified with the cap and gown and diploma cover. It was a little breezy. The breeze caught the gown and let's just say it was a moment Marilyn Monroe would have been proud of.

Do you know what those sensitive, caring, wonderful little boys of mine said? "I got that one. We'll keep it for the funeral."

Which, of course, made me laugh. The things they say crack me up. Maybe it's only me, but I think they totally have the Ewend sense of humor down to a science.

There is an abundance of pleasantness in my world.

The happy, silly, giddy words just don’t seem to apply.

Maybe the problem isn’t that there aren’t any happy words, but they are so scattered across the landscape I can’t seem to capture them. Like a Monet, they cannot be appreciated when viewed too closely. They dot together in random patterns seemingly nonsensical until you take a step back. Then, yes, then, the masterpiece is revealed!

The sunny days in the field with casual conversation about cows and poppies; the common threads of children and work and life shuffling through the papers at work; the vitamin D soaking, park bench sitting, stranger listening nights along the river; the colored pictures and snapshots freezing moments all lumped together make a veritable wildflower field of words.

Not of a particular event, but of many. Not of a specific person, but of many. Not one memory, but many. That’s where the words are hiding.

Hey, thanks for helping me find the words again. I thought for a moment I had writer’s block.

About my Dad

2011-06-19T08:06:00.002-05:00

It's been awhile since I've sat still long enough to write.

Truth be told, I just don't have the gumption to write about the next logical piece. I've graduated and I need to write about that. However, the Week-End Class schedule at St. Kate's keeps us as students for a bit after the ceremony. I'm not really "done" until June 25, 2011. I am relishing each moment. Stretching out the experience, the friendships, the connections, the safety of being a student for as long as I can.

I thought I would write about my Grandpa today. It's Father's Day and I haven't really written publicly about him. You ought to know him. He was a wonderful, wonderful man. And I don't just say that because he spoiled me, took me everywhere, taught me to read, chased butterflies for me, squished bugs on my behalf and loved me absolutely.

Others will tell you the same about him. He was amazingly compassionate.

But I find myself not able to write about him, yet, either. I hold the treasure of his memory closely, jealously against the day the words won't stay.

Why am I bothering you, then? Well, I thought I ought to touch your life in some small way lest you leave me for another blogger. I do want to keep your attention. I just am not publicly writing now. The words are all together full these days and can't just be randomly thrown into the universe. They require protection, still. I will share them when they are grown words. I promise.

But not today. Today I am re-posting a couple of prior pieces. They are also both in the Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges. If you like them, you might like the Book. Honestly. People do. Which always surprises me some.

In any event, here are links to the pieces written for and about my Dad: Daddy's Hands and Before I Know It.

I hope you enjoy them. Happy Father's Day to all the dads and all the grandpas and all the men who love like dads.

Daddy's Hands   Daddy's Hands

Before I Know It    Before I Know It

The Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges can be purchased through the EStore at: krisanewman.webs.com. If you would like a signed copy, please e-mail me at newkris@yahoo.com with your contact information.

If you like this blog, I think you will like the book.

Blessings galore! Kris

One Week Before the Beginning

2011-05-15T09:09:00.002-05:00

Today is a writing day.

Sometimes I can hardly sleep for the words push and play and demand my expression. Today is one of those days.

I’m going to graduate from college next week. I really am. I have the gown, the tassel , the yellow chord, the guest tickets. It’s real.

I remember clearly two events leading to this day.

First, my daughter-in-law’s voice saying, “John says it’s his fault that you didn’t go to college.” Fault? Interesting choice of words.

It’s true I didn’t go at 18 because I had to take care of us. In those days, when you aged out of foster care you simply aged out. It was up to your parents or foster parents to send you to college and mine couldn’t. The concept of After Care for foster kids was many years away when I turned 18.

Besides, I was pregnant. I had made my life choices and I chose to give life. I never, ever regretted that decision. But it complicated things for me. Rent and food and childcare stood between me and course catalogs.

College for me was an impractical dream lived by other people.

Time and life flew by. We made do and God provided in amazing ways.

Then came the day I sat in my son’s kitchen and listened to his wife tell me how responsible he felt that I hadn’t done what I always wanted to do.

“I’m not dead yet.” Was my answer and the gauntlet was thrown.

I was 39 years old. I was a legal secretary and worked part-time at Milwaukee Area Technical College. I knew adults went back to school all the time. I could easily join their ranks. Like my father before me, I looked at the peers which might be mine and I feared failing before them.

Kind people told me I was capable, but what if I wasn’t? What if I failed? What if I embarrassed my Grandma’s memory by finishing short?

Fear of failure was the hardest obstacle.

I had certain, particular friends at that time who unknowingly encouraged me.

A simple phrase spoken by someone whose opinion I held highly, “I keep forgetting you don’t have a degree already. You know so much about literature.”

And another, “You should work on getting published. You’re good enough.”

“You would blow them out of the water!”

Block by block, word by word, their words built me up until I could see over the fear and I started cautiously down the road.

The second memory, the one which pushed me above the fear, makes me smile to this day. I was having lunch with my boss on a beautiful fall day. I told him I was going to start taking classes. I needed him to know I didn’t plan to stay where I was, I wanted to be more than a secretary at some point in my life.

He looked farther beyond than I was dreaming. “Well, I know a lot of people who went to law school after having a full career somewhere else. You would make a great lawyer. I think you can do this.”

“One level at a time,” I laughed, “I don’t want to be a lawyer anyway. “ But his confidence in my ability so far beyond my dream pushed me over the fear of failure. If he thought I could finish grad school, then surely I could graduate from undergrad!

So many seasons have come and gone in the last six years.

Mavrik was only a few months old when I started this journey, and now he is graduating from kindergarten – a boy who can read and run and loves the world unabashedly. Anna, Arthur and Eli have been added to our clan - tangible reminders of God’s plans larger than our own.

Johnathon, my first son, and his wife have matured into leaders and parents who give more than they take from the world around them.

Thi, the younger, graduated from high school, expanded music and ministry learning with his college, and is now a youth pastor sharing grace with those set in his path.

I have moved from city to small town traveling between married and divorced, legal assistant to educator and back again, skirting the line of plenty and poverty. Names have been added and deleted from the list of those called “family” through birth and death and weaving of life’s story.

The blog, the book, the acceptance of my words and voice have given me a new identity.

I am not the same woman who sat in my son’s kitchen tantalized by the unlived dream. I am a writer. My expansive life experiences have given me something to share with those who come behind me. I am a stronger, more compassionate, quieter version of the woman who started this journey.

Next week I will walk across the stage with my robe and tassel and chord ready to begin the rest of the story.

Blogs and More Blogs

2011-05-03T21:46:00.000-05:00

This blog is about a blog. Well, actually it's about a blog about this blogger.

Some of you may know I have written many times in the past for an e-zine called ninetyandnine.com. Based out of St. Louis, MO, 90&9 started as a connection point for Christians to share information and creativity with other like minded Christians. There were short stories, reviews of various media, devotions, poems and all sorts of other "stuff."

I have written for them quite a bit over the years. The Tolstoy review is there and so is the Mitch Albom book reviews and, of course, the review of Hope's Boy. Some interviews, too, with some friends enjoying their 15 minutes of fame.

And now my own 15 minutes is ticking away.

Lee Ann Alexander, a writer and literary expert in her own right, writes about me. I am very honored.

And since you are my readers, I share the link with you.

Toast to the good days!

It's a new season. I do declare, winter has come to an end!

NinetyandNine Interview with Lee Ann Alexander is found here: http://www.ninetyandnineword.blogspot.com/

Only Just Begun

2011-04-14T06:30:00.000-05:00

Music and other sounds play behind the 48 hours I spent in St. Louis last week-end. Jets’ chatter, voices clattering and laughter tinkling like sunshine.

And music.

A worker hums along one hallway while another sings softly as they push their brooms and dust rags. Their harmony hastening the timeclock, smoothing the drudgery.

A smiling voice greets me at the end of the journey’s first leg, “I’m here! In the white car. I see you!”

Accommodating a tired traveler, refreshing with genuineness. Whisked to the wedding where pictures were prominently promenading causing guests to stroll down memory lane. Snatches of time full of love and promise, white lace and kisses for luck. A reminder that dancing in the mine fields can end in strength. Faith, it appears, is a major foundational component to win this dance.

The ceremony begins with a tradition continued. Family memories caried on the straings of a song. A reminder that though some have gone before, some yet remain. True, pure voices touch my soul.

I pondered the men standing before me – the groom and groomsmen – I know them all, well.

I watched most of them grow from small to tall, learning to stretch their wings, choosing paths. “I’m going to college. “ “I want to learn this language, to use it to affect the world.” “I plan to let God use my music.”

The great debut moments: Junior Camp Band, First Time Song Leaders, bow ties.

And laughter.

So very, very much laughter. All the tears feel less lonely shared with those whose laughter keeps us all from falling apart.

Well, laughter and prayer. How many hours have these men joined in prayer as a bastion protecting one another, building up walls of faith to support, surround, cover one another? The unleared mayhap cannot discern it, but I know some of the difficult days these men have seen. I remember the day Saul’s anger turned. The day Absalom’s jealousy overtook his loyalty. Events that cut to the quick and lay bare foundations. Comfort and peace replaced by deep sadness. I saw the wind blow fiercely pushing the chaff away from the stalk.

Yet, together, these men stand, strong.

I am so proud to know them.

As this day continued to tell its story, I learned I was not in St. Louis for only a wedding, as incredible as that was to me. I found myself immersed in conversations, particular, with two of the women of these men. The first wives, the examples. Those allowed into the circle, those who stand behind and with them. As one of the mothers, it is fitting I would share time with the wives on this day when another was added to their ranks. It’s what women do.

The whirlwind stopped as we chatted. We talked first of these men. Sharing experiences, stories, common bonds and then crossed the chasm to ourselves. Our dreams. Our ideas. Our plans. Our hearts opening before the other over a piece of cake and snacks of strawberries and homemade whip cream. Like hummus on chips, we dipped into one another’s lives.

The songs of the workers, the music traditions at the ceremony, and the musical conversation wasn’t all the music of this week-end, however. After all was said and done and everyone was where they should be next, a gathering spontaneously grew in the hotel lobby. Tables and chairs moved and arranged for a haphazard stage.

Have you ever been to a symphony? If you’re early enough, you hear them tuning their instruments. It sounds disjointed, a cacophony of sound confusedly babbling without purpose. Then, suddenly, a tap-tap-tap as the conductor draws their attention and smoothes the rough edges and united music fills the air.

I saw that in the lobby that night.

Youngest cousin first on the violin. Proudly smiling, deeply bowing, sharing his beginning talent with the world. A showman through and through looking for audience approval.

He gave the stage to his older brother, then. Shyly, uncertain his voice and guitar awkward at first until he forgot we were there and began to play for an audience of One. Clean sound from a beautiful soul resonated with innocence. Amazing grace! How sweet the sound. Sensitivity revealing an artist at the beginning of his life’s canvas.

Older cousins took the floor next. Sharing their more polished, perfected talents. Humble confidence mixed with anointing. The artist traded the stage, but his eyes held raptly to the older player’s hands. Watching every chord, every nuance, recording them with his moving fingers.

I looked around me and considered the richness of this family. Generations of music flowed through their veins. Open faces sharing His grace, the wonder of His blessings.

The day came to a close, but the time wasn’t full. Sunday began with praise music in the cab, friendly laughter exchanged through the airport, a friendship sparked and grateful reflections.

When at last I lay my weary self down I can hear the songs still. The score of this 48 hours will long play in my heart.

Angels Who Adopted Me

2011-03-29T06:35:00.000-05:00

Kids are angels, too, but I’m sure you already know that. I have quite the collection of kids who are angels. Many of them are grown now with kids and collections of their own. I never tire of their stories, their smiles, their innate goodness.

The other day someone made the comment that they like their own kids, but they aren’t too keen on adding to the brood like I am. I thought that was funny. I have never made an effort to add to my kid collection.

They just… join my path.

I have two sons. Those are direct gifts from God. They are the foundation of the collection and I’ve always tried to make sure they know they are the most important. Added to them, now, are the grandbabies.

But they weren’t the first. As the oldest of the “cousins” in my foster family, I was the natural babysitter. I read the stories to keep the kids quiet. Took the kids to the park. Played with the kids outside. It seemed I always had Ron or Angie or Vonnie somewhere close behind me all through the growing up years. And Kendra, too. She was the first official paid babysitting job I had.

I liked the idea that someone needed me and trusted me and laughed with me. Besides, I could tell them what to do and they had to listen to me. I was the oldest, after all.

And they made me laugh. A lot. Silly smiles and cookie kisses. That’s probably where it started. This kid collection thing. We read The Velveteen Rabbit endlessly and giggled at The Very Scary Witch no matter how many times we told it.

When Johnathon was born and my peers were having babies of their own, we traded a lot. I’d watch someone’s kids so they would watch mine. But it seemed I had kids more often that I didn’t trade for. Coming over to play, walking to the park with us, talking with me as much as my sons.

Then there were the bus kids. The goal was to bring kids to church so they could learn about Jesus, get a moral compass, a foundation to help them along the way. I understood the parents who wanted their kids to have a little direction while they had a few hours of quiet from the hectic swim that kept their families floating above the poverty line. It was a win-win, except I think I won the most.

I was the “rule maker” in the back of the bus. The one who sat with the kids to keep them from acts of mayhem and rioting. The thugs who came to church to get away from home for a few hours. The miscreants who wanted nothing more than a free breakfast. The chatterboxes who were starved for attention. They surrounded me through the bus ride and left me with pieces of their identity. I prayed they would take some of mine, too.

The angels whose eyes told too many stories and whose rare smiles radiated genuine love – if you watched long enough for the dead eyes to come to life.

My heart is full of them still – those smiles, tears, hugs.

The tough kids who went on to college are stars in my crown, they say. Some have families now. They are heads of households. Wage earners. Teaching their children about Jesus, giving them a moral compass. Using their gifts to bring grace to the world around them.

But what of those whose college years were spent behind prison walls? They are stars to me, too. Fighting for survival in a world they didn’t create, caught in a web they didn’t spin. They tried to make sense of the puzzle, but the pieces didn’t quite fit. I don’t see the gun in their hand or the rage in their heart. I see the little boy with the Mother’s Day card and no one to give it to. I hear the plain speaking voice saying, “but the electric cord? That’s the worst. The metal part sticks in your skin if you don’t have sleeves on.”

I wish I could have protected those angels better.

I feel their tiny hands tentatively stroking my foreign blonde hair, “your hair so soft. How you do that?”

Sometimes when I open my Bible their words fall out, “I made you a card. Do you like it?” Crayola treasures I will keep forever.

Some of them use their experiences now to shape the generation behind them. They are cops, soldiers, teachers, preachers. They control the world around them, teach Sunday School, sing for their Savior to minister grace to someone else, they go the extra mile to share some good thing.

I am amazed at the way God has taken my feeble words and acts of kindness and magnified them in these angels. I hear them telling others, “You have to keep bridges mended. You never know when that opportunity is lost for good.”

And the collection keeps growing. Wherever I go, it seems, there are children who want to share their lives with me. I love the way they speak, the words they choose, the things they find important. I draw from them hope, they draw from me value.

They adopted me along the way, but I’m the one whose family keeps growing.

“This is my white mama. See the resemblance? “ “This my Grandma. She was my mama’s mama so that make her my Grandma, right?” “Go to Bapka, she will read to you.”

It’s a win-win. Today, I am most grateful for the angels who share my path and fill my heart.

Walk in the Light

2011-02-28T06:29:00.000-06:00

I live so close to my church that I walk to church – snow, rain, cold – I walk. I really couldn’t park much closer than I live so there is no point in driving. Mostly, I enjoy it. It gives me a little space to put away home and get my mind ready for church. I love church, by the way, which you already know if you know me at all.

The sky was so intensely blue, the sun so intensely bright and the snow so intensely white that it actually hurt my eyes. I was teared up and struggling to see where to place my feet as I walked. Maybe you have walked in a light as bright, too? Well, this is how my writer’s eyes lived the moment….

My eyes are tired. They are puffy and dark and small and full of unbidden tears. The brightness of the sun makes me look away and down. Instinct tells me it’s too bright! I can’t see before me. I can’t open my eyes. Not only the sun is bright, but the snow reflects that light and throws snowflakes at me formed on the wind. They dart at me like tiny daggers pushing me back.

I want to shield myself from the brilliance, do something to stop the burning. I should have just stayed inside, tucked away, in my dark, quiet, space.

But I need to go to church.

I can’t stay where I am if I’m going to grow. I need to be fed by the community that is church.

I need some iron to brush against me and rough off the edges. I need some gentle voices to fill the empty places. I need to have someone touch me, hug me, tell me they are glad I’m here! I need someone to pull away the aloneness and give me value.

I need to tell someone they make me smile, to give encouragement to someone else, to let them hear me pray, to sing, to share the joy He brings.

I understand the sharpness of the light. I know the scientific implications. My mind is wrapped around it.

I know why I must leave my little apartment behind and get through it.

But recognizing and living are two different things. No one can walk through the light for me. No one can clean the burn – only my tears can clear my vision. No one can keep walking for me. I must see where I need to be and I must do what it takes to get there.

Walking through the brilliance, I see His majesty at a whole new level.

The Life-Light blazed out of the darkness; the darkness couldn't put it out. John 1:5, The Message

Angels Who Taught Me

2011-02-16T08:35:00.000-06:00

"Words kill, words give life; they’re either poison or fruit—you choose." (Proverbs 18:21 - The Message)

Sometimes the simplest string of letters can have long lasting impact.

I was reminded recently about a couple of teachers from middle school. Now, you have to realize that middle school was a long, long time ago.

And middle school was its own cataclysmic hotbed of change for me. Not only because of the normal hormones and strangeness that everyone goes through, but my Grandpa - my foster father, one of the centers of my universe - was very ill and passed away when I was in middle school. His illness and passing were some of the most traumatic events of my life.

I was not a very nice kid in middle school. I didn’t know how to deal with the emotions that surfaced at that time. Anger, resentment, jealousy, fear and failure churned in my heart. I think I started to wear black in middle school, but then it wasn’t just because it was easier in my professional world. I wanted to disappear.

I used a lot of drugs and drank a lot in an effort to self-medicate.

I spent a lot of time alone listening to The Doors and wishing I would just fade away.

I read voraciously – sometimes a book a day. All kinds of books, but mostly biographies. I was curious to know how other people lived, the real story behind their fame. I thought, perhaps, I would be famous someday and do something great.

If I could make it through middle school.

Mostly, I didn’t cry. I held those tears in and promised myself I would be tougher, better, stronger than anyone else. I was hard on the outside and made sure everyone knew I was fine. I didn’t need any help or any babying or any attention.

That’s why the teachers who come to mind impress me ever the more. I was a good student, a smart kid, but the surly wall around me was meant to keep them away. If you don’t care for anyone, you can’t lose them, right? That was my philosophy in middle school.

Mr. Campanelli, Mrs. Wendlendt and Mrs. Marks weren’t daunted by my attitude. They saw right through it.

Now, the women I might understand. They were, after all, English teachers and even then English was my easy subject. If anything could get me to discuss coursework, an English lesson could.

But Mr. C? He was a math teacher! I don’t know that anyone ever worked harder to try to help me understand math. He made me want to try to concentrate and follow his rules. More than his teaching, Mr. C. impressed me with his compassion. He is the one teacher who stopped me in the hall the day after the funeral and asked me how I was. He told me if I needed anything to let him know. I can see him there, standing with compassion and sympathy in his eyes. He understood. And he took the risk to reach beyond my anger to tell me so. He didn’t buy the “I’m fine” line.

Mrs. Wendlendt’s classroom was right next to Mr. C. She intrigued me because she was cut from such a completely different cloth from anyone I had ever known. Kind of like Maria von Trapp live and in person. She had been a nun and left to get married and teach. Her hair was short, her clothes were plain, but her face was so amazingly full of expression and life! She loved to tell stories and would read all kinds of things to us.

I don’t remember what the assignment was, but I vividly remember sitting in the back of the classroom with her. In her hand was something I had written with notes along the side in her broad, sweeping penmanship.

“You’re a natural writer, you know,“ She stated the fact as though I, of course, knew this from birth.

“I read a lot so I probably write better.”

“No, that’s not why.” She stretched across my self-deprecation and built a confident bridge, “You have a special talent. You are a writer. I love reading the way you put words together. Someday your words will be read by many people.”

That phrase is etched in my soul and lends itself to my identity.

I think she may have talked to Mrs. Marks, because when I got into her 8th grade English class, she expected me to write. She gave me freedom to expand my writing beyond the assignments and took extra time to read, correct, edit and push me to expound my thoughts. She called me a writer, too.

I had other teachers I will likely write about at another time, but today these are the three angels who come to mind. They believed in me when others looked over me. They reinforced what I learned at home – all people have value, even if they don’t see it in themselves.

I hope a teacher somewhere reads these words today and realizes the ability they have to build, to create, to enforce, to impact the future. I hope whoever reads this today realizes that we are all teachers with the ability to kill or give life to dreams through our words.

You never know who the punk under that black is going to be someday: literary honor student, author.

Winter Walking

2011-01-30T19:50:00.002-06:00

I love winter. January is my favorite month.

The year is new and full of promise in January. Anything can happen.

Christmas crumbs spill over into each day.

My birthday is in January when I get to be queen for a day… or a week if I can pull it off.

I know, you’re saying, are you crazy? You live in Wisconsin! Snow and more snow and negative double digits on the thermometer. What’s so great about that?

Cold. Tucked inside. Alone. Safe from the elements. Without fear of intrusion.

I like it.

If I want to, I can hide behind winter’s cloak. There’s nowhere to go when it’s so cold outside. One ought to stay in, to themselves.

No fear of offense in winter because you see no one.

Unless you choose to.

If you go out and about, it’s on purpose.

You can share quick laughter ducking between doors and cars. Opportunities for kindness abound when cars must be shoveled out and brushed off. It’s easy to share a shiver. No one cares what you look like beneath the layers.

Best of all? You can walk in a wonderland of glitter – a snow globe tipped for your enjoyment.

Snow. Layers and layers of billowy glitter sparkling against the midnight sky. Lighting even the darkest dark with an ethereal neon shine.

I breathe better in winter. The air is clear, crisp, concise.

And stars sparkle differently in winter. Sinking beneath the weight of the frosty air, they stud the midnight sky with diamonds.

I hold it to myself like a selfish child on Christmas Day.

I know it won’t last. None of it will. It will have to be shared and given away eventually. Back to the earth from whence it came. Adding to the water table to provide a foundation for spring.

The snow will melt. The days will lengthen. The doors will have to be opened.

But for today? I spread my arms wide and embrace the majesty of the winter night.

The Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges by Kris A. Newman is available through the
Estore at krisanewman.webs.com.
Come on by. Read a bit. Leave a note. Order a book. Or just stop in and wave hello.
You're very welcome. - Kris

First John

2011-01-12T06:16:00.001-06:00

I’m kind of stuck on the “angel” angle these days. I keep remembering people who have blessed me. Maybe I’m getting old, but I seem to have an awful lot of good memories. I’m going to attempt to get some of these memories out into the atmosphere to encourage people to, “just be nice!” as my Grandma would say.

So, go on, do something random and kind to someone you know and someone you don’t know. Someday, maybe you’ll be a part of my angel collection…..

Not very many people on the planet will know my first angel, and those who do might wonder at the label “angel.” But this isn’t their memory. It’s mine. And this is how I remember him and what I learned from him.

First John.

I don’t know why he was walking – he had a motorcycle. I don’t remember what the bike looked like, but I remember the sound, the smell, the feel of the Harley engine, the roughness of the leather seat, the smoothness of the gas tank. If I heard it, I could identify that bike.

But that day, the one that flashes in my memory, he didn’t have the bike and I don’t know why.

It was before the road was paved. I can see the dust gathered along the side and me piling it up and smoothing it out while I waited. I knew he would be there soon. He came down the hill walking toward me. Black hair combed back, but flopping along the sides in spite of the attempts to tame it. T-shirt, jeans, heavy work boots. He looks like the All-American iconic working man.

To my three-year-old stature, he was immeasurably tall; seeming to stretch to the heavens. I knew if I could get him to pick me up, the entire earth and all of its things would be beneath me. I would be like the queen in the movie borne in a carriage from the servant’s shoulders. Only the sharp blue sky and the powder puff clouds would be above me. I would be queen!

Surely, that’s how he made me feel. Safe, protected, above it all. When he bent to me and lifted me in those mammoth, strong arms…. I flew!

That day, when I waited patiently for him at the bottom of the hill, I didn’t consciously think all those things, but I knew them.

I also waited for that gentle smile to light his eyes. Pure love, pure enjoyment. As though I were the best little girl in the world. I smile today – so many, many lifetimes later – thinking of his smile.

One more thing I know about that day. In that working man’s lunchbox – the flip top with a Thermos tucked in its rounded top – somewhere buried in the deep, dark, cool interior a Kit Kat bar was hidden for me. If not there, then in a pocket of the leather vest he wore, or maybe his t-shirt, close to his heart. It would be there for me to find, a favorite game we played.

Then, in my memory, he is there, finally getting to me and reaching his hands as I call, “Up! Up!”

John might seem an odd angel to you, but he left an indelible mark on my life.

I’m not sure how that slice of time ends. When the vest was buried by men’s violence in a blur of viscous anger, the patch hidden or confiscated or destroyed. I couldn’t read the word Outlaws then, but I came to understand the fear of the word and the innate sadness it brought to me. The boots, chains, bike, vest – to me they made him invincible. To someone else a target.

I was too young to understand the meaning of the words spoken the day they called. I saw the tears, heard the anguish, but didn’t know why. Forgotten by the adults speaking above and around me, I heard the radio playing, “Bridge Over Troubled Water.” Ever after, it became the catalyst of the phrase, “that’s the song that was playing when they called about John.”

Of all my angels, John is the first most precious to me. He was taken from me first, before I wanted him to go. He taught me to see beyond the surface; to look in a man’s eyes to find out who he is; to not discount anyone.

I don’t know his history or the story of his last day. The waiting day is the only real, complete memory I have of him. I have heard other stories: how he loved me, how he always had candy for me, how he would tuck me in his leather and take me on the bike. I can feel the patch on my face and smell his leather, but only once can I see his face. That is the day I waited for him and he smiled.

In my memory, he is a giant who carried me like a queen, whose smile spoke volumes of love to me. That is enough.

Angel Collection

2010-12-24T08:22:00.000-06:00

I have an angel collection. I didn’t used to. It was started many years ago by Lopez, my boss, who asked someone else if I collected anything. She figured I collected angels. So, for Christmas and birthday and Secretary’s Day and for sundry other times when gift giving was an appropriate part of our work relationship, he bought me angels: figurines, ornaments, candles, bookends and more. Finally, I asked him why he always bought me angels.

“Because Judy said you collect them,” he answered plainly.

“I guess I do now!” We laughed and that increased the angel giving.

We worked together for ten years. I have a lot of angels from him. That kind of thing is contagious and so I also have a number of angels from other people, too. It’s easy to give gifts when one has a theme.

This year when the angelbabies were decorating my little Christmas tree I was caught by the beauty of it. They kept asking me, “Who gave you this angel? Where did this angel come from?”

The angelbabies had never, and likely would never, meet the angelgivers. They are collected along the rainbows of my past. Those rays of promise, peace and plenty who gave what they could to smooth the way. We shared laughter – so much laughter – as we walked and some tears. Although, the tears I tried to keep to myself. My angels always seem to have enough sorrow of their own without borrowing mine.

I always felt I took more from my angels than I gave. Like the Little Drummer Boy, I always seem to be the poor one with nothing to offer but my love. Many times I have sat with my Lord and talked about my angels and all of their needs. “Please, God, can’t you just…..” The blank would be filled with “make them better, bring some cash, heal the hurt, do something about the anger, bring peace to their lives?”

I wished a thousand times for unlimited supplies to fix all that was wrong.

In the meantime, these angels kept doing good things for me. Compassion and grace and books and clothes and dinners and coffees and calendars and time they gave. Filling my empty cup again and again with memories. How could I ever repay them their generosity? How could I ever give back?

I am not a very good friend. I forget birthdays, important events and details. I don’t mean to. My days move quickly and I lose track of time. I try to do better by adding things to the calendar, and then I forget where the calendar is. I try to listen better and take mental notes, but then the notes in my mind get misfiled and I forget if it was her or him with that particular problem. Sigh.

And then, there I am again, back in my prayer closet asking God to help all these precious angels. Hoping I have enough faith and He has enough grace to overcome my forgetfulness.

I also thank Him, often, for the angels He has given me. If you hear me say, “Thanks, God!” it’s not a cliché. I am often caught off-guard by the gifts He gives me and can’t help but thank Him. Most often, though, the thanks I give Him for the angels cannot be heard by others. It’s mingled with tears flowing from a grateful heart.

I pray today you see the angels He has given you. Forget looking for signs and wonders inexplicable. Notice the everyday, amazing, stunning miracles that He has littered your path with. Drown yourself in His blessings.

I thank my God for you, my readers. You give courage to my voice.

I thank my God for you, my lifetime friends. You give purpose to my laugh lines.

I thank my God for you, my angels. You give ever much more than you receive.

Thanks, God, for so many gifts.

Readers and Writer

2010-12-12T22:32:00.000-06:00

I have to apologize to my readers, wherever you are. I haven’t been in the mood to write much lately. Maybe it’s the way people have reacted to the book that’s made me reticent. I feel almost third-person-ish talking about this Author Kris Newman who spills her guts to the world.

I know the transparency of my words give honesty and purpose to my experiences. That’s why I write about them.

Some have been angry with me. Misunderstanding my need to express, they think perhaps I’m trying to justify myself, my actions, my life. I’m not. Some of my writing is, indeed, cathartic. Most is the result of prayer, contemplation and reader reaction.

On one level, my writing is a ministry. It’s a way of helping others to deal with the difficulties of life that I have dealt with. Not because I have become some perfect specimen of grace and forgiveness; but, in my human reactions to the events of my life I have found Someone to give me grace and forgiveness. The answer to my life’s complications doesn’t come from within my own strength, but in the strength I get from God.

Say what you may, but that’s how I see it.

I see my writing as an expression of that, a way to connect others to God who has helped me so He can help them.

Some readers of the book are surprised to learn how similar we all are. At least, that’s how I perceive their response. Perhaps it is I who is surprised to learn how similar they are to me. Some pieces I expect people to like and they don’t. Some pieces I expect them to find shallow or foolish, and they love them.

Readers, I have decided, are an unpredictable lot.

The one piece which seems to garner the strongest reaction is the one I enjoyed writing the most: A Night at the Theater. Some readers have begged to know who is the mysterious woman, what is the relationship between the two, and is there a sequel! All are unanswered questions which make my heart smile to no end.

I’m a little afraid to see my words in print because I know I can’t take them back and hide them anymore. I think that’s why I haven’t written.

But don’t think for a minute that the words have left me. They push me along on the whims of their way. As long as I’m alive, I’m sure, I’ll be writing something.

And as long as I know you’re reading, I’ll keep writing. Please forgive the time between when I simply must catch my breath and determine if I really am strong enough to throw my heart out there.

I know not everyone will like everything that I write. I know not everyone will understand everything. Writing isn’t a popularity contest or a test of my ability. It’s only expression.

And so, my readers, please forgive my reticence. And thank you, so very much, for stopping by to chat with me.

If you would like more information about The Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges, please visit my website at: Krisanewman.webs.com Grab a cuppa java and visit awhile!

Where to Place an Order

2010-11-17T06:35:00.000-06:00

Some people have asked about how to order the book, please send me an e-mail at imnewkris@yahoo.com with "Book Order, Please" as the subject line and let me know that you would like to place an order. I will respond with where your check or money order can be mailed. When I have received payment, I will fill the order.

You can also order through Amazon.com or through my website: Writer's Pages

There is something very strangely fulfilling about seeing my words in print. I realize that anyone can publish anything so being published doesn't make it good.

However, those are my words. Those words I can't hide from or stash away or live without. My words. And now, they are part of the experience of many, many others. People who are from completely different walks of life are sharing my path.

My words bridge the gap between their perspective and mine. It's not easy - this opening of my heart and spilling its contents to a stranger, but it's good. It's a risk worth taking and I would recommend it.

All very interesting to my writer's eyes. I watch and listen and perceive that underneath all of our bluster, we are more alike than different.

The EStore is Open for Business!

2010-11-01T18:25:00.000-05:00

IF you were one of those people who said they wanted to order a copy of my first self-published work,

THEN here is the place you want to go to place your order: createspace.com

A couple of people have already ordered their copies and it seems to be a pretty smooth transaction. Let me know, please, if you have any difficulties. I can also order copies for you, but it's a longer process since you have to send me the money and then I have to place the order, receive the shipment and then send it out to you. Going through the link above cuts me out of the process.

I really am humbled by the support I've received, and the encouragement. I don't understand why you want to read my ramblings. I am not all together sure I make any sense at all and I surely don't have anything deep or profound to say that will shift your paradigms.

But, maybe, just in the transparent honesty of looking into the world through my eyes you can see something just a little differently. Maybe it's yourself that looks new. Maybe it's someone you work with, or live with.

I pray for you, my readers, that God will use my words to bless you. And I thank Him, too, for your friendship.

You can also access the link through my website: Writer's Pages

Let me know you stopped by!

If by chance you would like to host a book signing, please let me know. I'm sure we can arrange something. I would love the opportunity to share with you and your friends what God has done.

Blessings galore!
Kris

Order Confirmed

2010-10-24T15:32:00.000-05:00

I just clicked the most interesting, intimidating, invoking fear button ever. Of my whole life. Honestly.

“Confirm Proof Order” is all it said. That sounds pretty innocuous.

But the proofing order confirmed is my first self-published work.

That’s scary.

All those times I’ve called myself a writer, all those books I’ve critically read and wondered who wrote them, all those bookshelves in all those libraries and stores full of books without my name have new meaning now.

I am a writer - a published author. People will criticize my words and syntax. A library or used bookstore somewhere eventually will hold a copy of what I have created by hitting that button.

No fanfare. No celebration. No notice except for those friends near and far pushing me along so I don’t chicken out at the last second.

By this time next week, or before, I’m guessing, I’ll be posting instructions for you to order your own copy. The cost will be $14.99 plus shipping. It will be about 100 pages. You can have one, if you like.

Daddy’s Hands, in its original form is in it; so is Patchwork Quilt of Me, complete with photo. Those are pieces I know people like. Those are insurance pieces.

There is a poem about being alone and another about broken glass. I think people will like them, too, but I’m not sure. They are kind of . . . personal. Maybe they won’t relate well.

There are other scattered bits in the book. Some you may have read and forgotten. Some you may not like. Random views through my eyes as I grew into this new version of me. Becoming better when I had every right to become bitter.

Good or bad, syntax complications or not, overused phrases and all; the proof is on the way.

I’m an author.

Thanks for your encouragement. Thanks for listening.

Kris

Middle Ground

2010-10-16T10:05:00.001-05:00

I should be working on my Philosophy test, but the words and meanings are all pushed behind the idea of The Book. It sits there on my shoulder waiting to be finished.

It’s almost there now. I have one more editor to meet with. One more set of ideas to sift through. One more session of page creating, picture editing, getting it all together.

Almost there.

And now I’m more terrified than before.

Sitting here, on the middle of the bridge, too far down to turn back, not quite in the safety zone, is the worst part of bridge crossing. I remember the first time I walked across the Poetry Bridge in Minneapolis. The traffic raced beneath me. Lives scurrying from point A to point B with no thought of me and my drama. Didn’t anyone care that I was so alone? Didn’t anyone know how little value I placed on myself?

I had the option at that moment to make them remember me. To become a life they would never forget. To stop their rushing and force their attention to me. I didn’t, but the thought occurred to me. By not finishing the crossing of that bridge I would have made an impression on them. A horrible one, to be sure, but I would have become a part of their lives. They would see me then.

Today I stand at this metaphorical bridge and find a different scene. If I don’t cross this bridge, if I go backward, if I never finish The Book I will cease to make an impression, no one will remember me, I will be the focus of no one. I could be literarily invisible.

There is a great deal of comfort in that anonymity. For one thing, there is no risk of painful backlash if I simply slide off the grid here. I could take down the website. Stop answering e-mails and phone calls and before long everyone would forget my ramblings and go about their business without me just like they did a year ago before I started publicly writing. There will be no criticism of my expressions, no doubt about my sentence structure, no dislike of my endless strings of thoughts. No exposure of my doubts, fears, failures, inadequacies.

Like the voices which pulled me across the Poetry Bridge all those months ago, something compels me forward. I am not sure why my writing is so important, but I feel it is. Not in an egotistical “I have something to say!” way, but in a “I have lived this, am better for it, and you can make it, too” way.

Had my routine not been interrupted a couple of weeks ago, The Book would already be out there. You would know what I’m afraid of. Although many pieces have been strewn about, only a couple of people have read the whole thing. Their reception pushes me to the other side.

I think, by next week-end, while you are scurrying about your lives hither and yon without thought of me, a momentous event will occur. I will hit the button that says “send” and off will go the first edition, ready for publication, real library-ready book containing my words.

I’m not sure if angels will sing or heaven will notice, but I know a little lady with brown eyes, a tall Swedish man, and a biker in a leather who will be looking from beyond smiling. Whatever value they saw in my little life at the beginning, I give this book back to them in appreciation.

God has been very good to me.

If you haven’t yet, and care to, please visit the website: krisanewman.webs.com. The snatches of prose mentioned above are posted there. Although I’ll have links here for purchase, the website has a little more information.

Thanks for walking this bridge with me. It’s nice to not be alone.

So, yeah, where you from?

2010-10-03T20:00:00.000-05:00

Looking at my stats, it appears there are readers reading this blog from all over the world. India. Thailand. China. Ireland. England. Chile. Mexico. Alaska. And everywhere in between.

But only a few of you have made yourselves known.

I wonder who you are. I wonder what you like about what you read here, if you like anything. I wonder how you found this blog. I wonder if you'll come back again or if you came here by mistake like someone who opened a door unintentionally. I wonder what we have in common.

You're welcome to come back.

You're welcome to tell me about you.

You're welcome to share the common ground we're walking.

Writers write because we can't not let the words have their way. Readers, on the other hand, stop hither and yon by their own will power.

Writers are always trying to figure out what makes a reader read.

Are you from France? Thailand? Mexico? Are you raising a family in Singapore? Are you a missionary kid in India? A student in Ireland? A truckdriver in Alaska?

My writer's mind places you in all sorts of adventerous roles.

Add a comment. Jot a note. Join the website at krisanewman.webs.com and tell me more about yourself there.

Or, just follow along in the same invisible way and see if I don't some day write your life through my writer's eyes.

Music Sings the Colors of Life

2010-09-09T22:32:00.000-05:00

Music plays a big part in my world.

I was listening to music practice one afternoon and feeling the keyboard notes run along my arms and it occurred to me that music, like writing, is intrinsic to my identity.

I could describe people to you by the kinds of music they like. John is a little edgy, a little country. Melissa is sometimes romantic, but with a strong streak. Tina is rock ‘n roll laced with a healthy respect for blues. Bob? Full of mystery and depth behind blue eyes. Thi might come across as traditional, but once he opens the door you find a wide assortment of sound and intellect.

I’m an eclectic mix that begins with a colorful clash of poetry and sound and ends with fun mixes.

I’ll let you guess which bands apply.

I like Christian music, mostly, but I get bored with the repetitious redundancy of much of it. I find it interesting that people criticize my wide taste in music. Really? You think my musical taste is questionable, don’t even ask me about what I read.

I also find it interesting that they don’t want to take up the discussion about why I like what I like and how I think God sees it. They only want to tell me how they think God sees it. Hmm. In the words of my oh-so-wise Grandma, “who died and made you boss?” I wonder if they would object to a classical composer if they knew of his personal choices and misadventures. I don’t meant to be critical, but it sure sticks in my craw sometimes.

Back to music.

Music speaks to me. Not only the lyrics, the very sound of certain melodies will stick with me for days. I can hear their strains calling me to move for days, sometimes years. There seems to be a song for every event. I am forever singing something random because music is forever filling my mind.

I find myself drawn to music, like all art forms, which has a deeper meaning, something that goes well beyond the surface. I have to like the surface, too, though. A wild cacophony of sound has no purpose. Distorted, unintelligible lyrics are foolishness to me. Shallow, common rhythms bore me. Loud, I like. Soft, I enjoy.

I’m not a musician, but I sure do dig music.

Presenting . . . The Book of Pages

2010-08-31T19:04:00.000-05:00

Well, your friend the writer is considering taking a leap to cross the chasm between writer and author. What’s the difference? Publication.

I have fearfully looked over this chasm with its plethora of unknowns for many years. How does one find a publisher? Are all agents the same? Can I afford to self-publish? And is there any point in that? How can I sell my own stuff? Who cares?

If you know me at all, you know I'm terrified of heights. Someone with great patience will have to walk with me over this bridge....

Along comes Lulu.com and, for the moment, I think I may have solved the publisher problem. I can self-publish an e-book which can be converted to hardcover by personal order for a pretty small sum.

I am going to start the process. I think. If I don’t back down.

I mean… what if I go to the trouble and throw my heart out there on a string and it doesn’t make it to the other side, but crashes splintering into the abyss? What if no one cares that I have a book out there that could be read?

But see, then there’s the other “what if.” What if people would like it, would grow from it, would glean something of value from my meanderings? God gave me this talent to use for some purpose. What if by not sharing it, I’m failing Him?

That’s scarier than failing, to be honest with you.

Therefore, hereby I do declare I will at some point in the nearer, rather than later, future put together the Book of Pages – Musings and Meanderings of a New Single Woman.

If in the past at some point you have read something -whether on this blog or through various other Kris NewMan sharing events -you remember, please let me know. It may make the final cut and you’ll know it was at your suggestion.

Similarly, if you have ever read something of mine that was really, really bad . . . please, please tell me! I wouldn’t let you walk out of the restaurant with lettuce in your teeth. Don’t let me put something in my first attempt at authordom which stinks.

I’m kind of excited about this. I don’t expect I’ll make any bestseller list and I don’t guess Oprah will call me, but perhaps there is someone who will be blessed.

Now you know how a writer looks at becoming an author. We’re terrified.

Hope's Boy - A Book on the Love List

2010-08-15T09:08:00.000-05:00

Following is a book review that was posted on ninetyandnine.com some time ago. I wrote the review shortly after reading the book. I still love Hope's Boy and Andrew Bridge is still my hero. His words have impacted my life.

When a writer finds an author and a book who speaks to their soul, this is how we see it.

Hope’s Boy by Andrew Bridge

I love this book. I love the way Andrew Bridge uses words. I love the flow of the story. I love the pictures painted on the pages. I love this book.

If you know me at all, you know that I’m not a fickle book lover. Some books I like. Some books I very much dislike. There are very few on the Love List. The Bible, Dr. Zhivago, These is My Words they are on the Love List, but not much else.

Hope’s Boy is at the top of the Love List.

Apparently, I am not the only one who loves this book. Within one week, Hope’s Boy was named a New York Times Best Seller and a Publisher’s Weekly Best Seller.

Andrew Bridge draws the reader into the mind and emotions of a foster child. He begins at the same level that most people do when they encounter an abused child; from the outside. He is the lawyer sent to investigate a facility to report on the treatment of children. The neglect and abuse that he finds strengthens his resolve to do more.

And then he tells you why he is driven to do more.

His story begins with scenes of life with his grandmother in Chicago and carries you to the streets of Los Angeles with his mother. Try as she might, Hope could not take care of her son. Try as he might, Andrew could not take care of his mother. Andrew was only seven when the authorities took him from his mother. Growing up in foster care wasn’t the worst thing that might have happened to him physically, but the emotional scars run deep. A tale of determination and strength follows until you realize that the end has brought you back to the beginning. Along the way, Andrew has grown into the recipient of a Wesleyan scholarship, become a Harvard graduate and a Fulbright Scholar. You will cheer his success as though he were your brother.

More than that, however, Hope’s Boy stirs compassion. Rather than a victim’s tale of woe, Hope’s Boy is the story of a child who sees the struggles of the adults around him and understands. This foster child didn’t become a statistic, but found a way to succeed. With Andrew’s resume, he could have become a Wall Street corporate lawyer jet-setting with the big firms. Instead, Andrew gave his skills back to those without a voice.

Although Andrew has represented children through a number of channels beginning in Alabama, his work with the Alliance for Children’s Rights in Los Angeles, CA may have had the widest impact. Beyond providing legal services to children, Andrew has been instrumental in linking health and education services to children as well.

In my personal opinion, Andrew’s greatest work has been the attention drawn to children at the edge of emancipation. In the past, foster kids turned 18 and they were on their own. Just like that. If the foster parents didn’t feel a need to help them beyond 18, they didn’t. Most foster kids had no real contact with their birth families by that point and so the birth family didn’t help them, either. The state, certainly, didn’t help them. Statistics show that the strong majority of foster kids fail after emancipation. They don’t go to college. They can’t hold a job. They abuse their kids. They spend their adult lives trying to find a solid place to stand. Most fail. Under Andrew’s supervision, The Alliance for Children’s Rights has implemented model programs to assist kids beyond the age of 18.

Perhaps, this book is important to me because I was raised in foster care. Like Andrew, I lived in a home where my physical needs were well cared for. Like Andrew, I learned that love and failure can be elements of a parent’s character. Unlike Andrew, I have never really found a way to go back and help those who come behind.

For those who want to be involved in the legal side of foster care, Andrew suggests working with the Court Appointed Special Advocates program, also known as Guardians ad Litem. Andrew states, “These are volunteers who work with kids in the foster care system, who most often take on the kids most in need, and find solutions to problems that have eluded dozens of lawyers and judges that have preceded them. They do a great, great job and there are far too few of them. It would be tremendous if someday every kid in care could have one.” Beside this suggestion, Hopesboy.com lists several resources for various advocate programs. I recommend checking out the site and finding a place to put your talents to use.

If you work with kids, if you have ever considered becoming involved in foster care, if you were raised in a foster home; Hope’s Boy is required reading.

Hope’s Boy is not a book that you read. It’s a book that you experience. Thank you, Andrew, for giving the story a voice.

Did you see that?

2010-07-25T09:59:00.000-05:00

Proverbs 27:17 (New International Version)

     17 As iron sharpens iron,
          so one man sharpens another.

Why do I do what I do?

Live the way I live?

Don’t do what I don’t do?

I can do anything I want. I have no one beside me or behind me or before me to make me do anything.

Except for God.

And that’s a big deal.

I do what I do to be pleasing to Him who has given me peace in the storm, provision in the lack, laughter in the sorrow, fullness in the aloneness.

I live the way I live to enjoy the presence of Him who shares with me laughter, sunshine, flowers, stars, friendships, affection.

I don’t do some things that might make me crass, harsh, bitter, foolish.

I do some things out of habit, out of need, out of obedience.

At the very bottom under it all, I really don’t care what others think.

It may appear that my actions are intended to win someone’s approval, someone’s attention, someone’s respect.

That is only partially true. I do want approval, attention, respect – just like every other human being walking on the earth.

But ultimately?

I want the approval, attention and respect of my God.

I think if I can live right before Him, everyone else’s opinion falls into place.

However, I have also gotten to an age where I realize that there are others watching, always.

They want to see how to develop this relationship with God that has grown natural to me. They need to learn how to depend upon Someone to get them through the bad times. They need to figure out what’s okay and what’s not good in cultivating this relationship with God.

They are my children, grandchildren, peers, co-workers, colleagues, associates. Some are new believers. Some have always been a part of a church community.

So I cajole, challenge, question, example and remain mindful that I am never truly independent of the world.

I try to be sensitive to them, to hear how they are really living. To listen to their needs when they are not talking.

It’s hard for me to remember I’m a grown up, a leader. My age and season of life makes me so. I have walked this path for more than 20 years through many, many dark days; have seen incredibly deep blessings; have watched God do amazing miracles. I have crossed some bridges.

When I look in the mirror, I see someone who struggles with faith and purpose and intangible questions. I see my failures and inabilities and the futility of my efforts. I hope no one else is watching my stumbling about.

Two songs from the early years play softly in the background of my life. They seem to define the ambiguity within me.

I’m Not Perfect, Just Forgiven
Author Unknown

     I’m not perfect, just forgiven.
     Haven’t yet arrived! But I’m on my way!
     Since Jesus found me and forgave me.
     Can’t say I’m perfect.
     But I can say I’m saved!”

Oh, I Want to See Him
R. H. Cornelius, 1916

     As I journey through this land, singing as I go.
     Pointing souls to Calvary, to the crimson flow.
     Many arrows pierce my soul from without within
     But my Lord goes ahead through Him I must win!

    Oh! I want to see Him!
     Look up on his face
     On the streets of glory
     Let me life my voice
     Cares all past, home at last
     Ever to rejoice!

I am not perfect, but I have managed to keep walking with Him. I can’t be afraid to share my experience. It’s ok to let the walls down.

I am bound to see Him, face-to-face someday. My Jesus, my Lord, my God.

That is why I do what I do, don’t do what I don’t do and live the way I live.

From the Inside Out

2010-07-12T06:17:00.000-05:00

Picture a piece of burlap. Strong. Tightly woven. Complete.

Now picture that same fabric torn, not cut, into five pieces. The ends frayed and torn. Two of them more together than apart, but none of them completely connected any more.

That’s what my family is like.

Two young people in love and ready to conquer the world and beat the odds were overtaken by life’s demands. Push pulled and they were strewn asunder. Not cut with neat edges. Torn. Raggedly. With strands flaying and seeking wholeness.

And yet, one strand, invisible to the outside, still connects those lives. It’s like a band of steel that could not be torn, cannot be broken. It can be ignored or pushed aside, but it remains. Intact. Unchanging.

I have been corrected for using the term “my real family” as though my foster family was my real family and my biological family was something else. I understood the correcter’s point of view, but I am not completely sure they understood mine.

I’ve also been told that I mourned the loss of someone from my real family when my family was torn apart; therefore, I had no cause for sadness when he died. That wasn’t true, either. The speaker didn’t see the thread that would not break. The speaker did not understand the insurmountable strength of that connection.

If you have never been in foster care, I don’t know if you could.

This reflection is meant to express some of that.

From the outside in, we aren’t a close family at all. Rarely are we all in the same space. Few pictures exist of all of us together. Two of us or three of us, now no more than four of us, gather from time to time. Our memories are stilted, disjointed.

Being together takes effort. We make the effort because we enjoy each other, we get something from each other, we understand each other. We are okay apart, but much better together.

My parents met in their early 20s. Married soon after they met. Began a family.

But unemployment, sickness, exhaustion, alcohol, women, little family support took a quick toll. Five years and three kids later, they divorced. Bitterly.

For reasons unknown, really, and disremembered by the players, my parents placed their kids in foster care. For more reasons unknown and disremembered, my brother and sister stayed together with my dad’s mother and I went to family friends.

But I knew they were there. And they knew I was here. We just weren’t often in the same here or there.

My parents went on to other relationships, other lives; but never really another family. My mom’s relationship lasted the longest at almost 40 years as of today. My brother and sister grew up together sharing friends and landscape and experiences.

My foster family sewed up most of my frayed edges. They surrounded me with good things and were my family in many respects. I love them and am grateful for them.

Yet, there was that one string, the one connection, that one feeling that someone I belonged to was not with me.

Our fabric was torn, but we were still oddly connected.

We are all so much older now.

I’m a grandmother, for crying out loud. Our father is gone. We live in different cities with different friends and different lives. We try to get together for Christmas. We call on birthdays, at least. The women, my mom and sister and I, talk pretty frequently, actually. We all work hard to keep the lines of communication open.

From the outside in, we don’t appear very close for a family.

I have no idea what my niece and nephew are involved in. I have to keep asking my brother, “what grade are they in? How old are they?” Other aunts know those things. It goes the other way, too. My brother chats on occasion with his nephews, but has no real clue what makes them sad or happy or angry.

Don’t mistake our distance for indifference. It’s not because we don’t care. It’s just how it is.

My sons are in two different parts of the state living two different lifestyles. One, a family man working hard, going to school, living small-town life. The other, a single, city-man, a barista, a musician responsible only for his own needs.

But let a tragedy come along. Let someone have a crisis. That invisible thread starts to tug. Regardless of financial situations. Regardless of other responsibilities. Regardless of other commitments.

The tie that binds starts to pull taut and the world stops.

Like now. Today. I should be at work and my German ethic is battling with this family need. My sister is on vacation and should be planting her garden. My brother wants to be busy about his own life. My son wants to be elsewhere doing something.

Mom needs us. Here we are.

My son, the family man, struggles with this. He wants to be here. But he can’t. His responsibilities are not shared enough and he can’t make a four-hour trip. I assure him it’s fine. He can wait until we need him and can’t do without.

There’s nothing we can do. My mom’s heart is breaking and the doctor’s keep saying there is hope for this, but not for that. All we can do is watch as silently as the man who has controlled her life for 40 years slowly ebbs away. We know he hates being where his and we wish we could let him go to the next life.

And so we wait.

Dancing around our responsibilities and our need to simply be together as life and death totter at the edge of today’s stage.

But we wait together.

Even if we try to go on about our lives – the thread keeps tugging. Our minds, our hearts, our attention is centered on one another.

We’re a family. Not like yours, perhaps, or any other. Together we are stronger, more complete.

The burlap is frayed, but only needs to be placed near the other torn pieces momentarily to find the right place, to connect, to become whole.

That’s my family from the inside out.

Walk With Me Awhile

2010-06-11T20:23:00.000-05:00

Almost done with this semester already. It seems to have gone quickly past, but it’s had so many events! I have flown from one thing to another living them each fully, but at break-neck speed! Writers tend to get unreasonably busy living life fully. We draw every drop of experience from everything we do.

Let me tell you about one particular week-end so you can get a sense of what I mean.

On Friday night of this particular week-end I watched a movie. Work had been long and I was tired. It was time to rest. Hanging over my head like a thunder cloud were several chapters of reading promised to be done by Sunday afternoon. But I couldn’t do it. I could not make myself pick up a book and try to retain one more speck of knowledge. I was in bed by 8:30 p.m. sleeping deeply.

Saturday morning found me bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at 5:30 a.m. I wanted to complain about waking so early, but I had already slept so long my back was tired from laying still. There was nothing for it, but to get up and do something.

So I started with dishes and laundry and housework. I luxuriously enjoyed my morning coffee and dug into the homework reading. Such fascinating stuff! I love history. Before I knew it, it was time to start the two-hour drive to St. Paul for class. I checked to be sure I had everything I needed and off I went. Half of the reading cloud has dissipated and I wished again for an audio copy of my textbook.

A lovely drive, I must say. I know some people think I’m insane for driving two hours to get to campus, but I don’t mind it. I like why I’m going and it always makes me happy to be on the way. I love the season of my life where it is, but I do miss the Cities.

Discussions, questions, sharing life with a diverse population of incredible women: behind us the clock keeps ticking. Thrown about the room are ideas and expressions grown and developed from many different fields. Girlie girls and tomboys discussing the relevance of gender and what we will do about the labels placed upon us. How do we become the change we see needed in the world? An unexpected, incredible compliment from my professor gives me personal cause to dig a little into my self-perception. It occurs to me that I see myself differently from the inside out than the world sees me from the outside in. Before I know it, it’s 4:30 p.m. and I’m on my way to the next chapter.

Waiting for me at the train station at the Mall of America is a classmate. We are going to the Somali quarter of Minneapolis to meet other classmates and get a taste of a different culture. We find ourselves immersed in colors, textures, languages and foods we had only admired from afar. We are now the outsiders, the foreigners. Among ourselves we try to understand the great questions of assimilation, Americanisms and culture. We are quieter on the train ride home.

The cloud of guilt is beginning to rain upon me. Homework awaits me. I find myself a spot in a familiar coffee shop where I can concentrate and dig in.

It’s after 10:00 p.m. when I head for my “home” in Shakopee. I can hear the guest room beckoning me and I am thankful for its familiar warmth. At 11:00 p.m. I set my alarm for 6:00 a.m. and drift off.

Morning has barely stretched out the horizon when the alarm pushes me awake. On the road again by 7:30 a.m. I’m late to meet a friend who is passing through the Cities on her way home to Tulsa. The chances to see my friend are few and I must take this opportunity. Starting our conversation where we left off over a year ago, we gain strength from one another’s courage. The man of her dreams is with her this time. I enjoy meeting Prince Charming. I smile as I drive away content that my friend is moving toward a good season.

Off to school. I am too late to enjoy my normal Minnesota church service, but too early for class. I decide to go to campus and find a quiet place to read a bit and pray a bit and talk to Jesus about life in general. As I’m walking, I hear the most amazing voice coming from the campus chapel. An invisible line pulls me to my youth as I enter the Catholic Church doors. Grand in its appearance, austere in its command of respect, it envelops me. I sit in the back and drink in the memories drawn by the music, the expected responses, the formality of the mass, the reverent voices. I leave refreshed. For a short time before class, I sit in the garden and talk to Jesus. Peace He gives, it’s true.

Class again and this time we meet in the English garden. Sweet summer smells waft in and out of our discussions. Laughter, contemplations, sharing. Rain sprinkles outside of us, but we are tucked beneath the gazebo.

I stop for a quick coffee on the way out of town. Now the two hour drive yawns before me. My mind leaps from idea to idea over all of the layers of life lived in the preceding 48 hours. I smile and laugh to myself and think deeply about the concerned discussions I’ve heard.

Many people would perhaps close themselves into their quiet homes as quickly as possible after so much activity, but my week-end isn’t done yet.

Church starts at 6:30 p.m. on Sunday nights and my angelbabies are waiting for me. I duck in my apartment, wash my face, brush my teeth and head back out. I am very late so I sit in the back. I’m struck by the contrast between the morning mass and this evening’s service. Pentecostal worship is probably the exact flip-side to Catholicism. Children are dashing between their parents and other relatives. Women are smiling and commenting to one another. Men are clapping. Hands are raised across the building in surrender. The music is loud, boisterous, celebratory. Although there is a sense of order, it may not be obvious to an onlooker. It occurs to me that God really is everywhere.

My grandchildren see me and run back to my seat. Their smiles and kisses and questions wash over me.

It’s after 10:00 when a group of us head to McDonald’s for an ice cream after church. Giddy with exhaustion, we laugh and talk and sing.

I breathe deeply the experiences of my life. I feel very selfish, sometimes, enjoying my life as much as I do. I think I have too many good things. I see the suffering of others and wish I could give some of what I have to help them. But, truth be told, I really don’t have much to give. My riches are tied up in people and all that I receive from them.

The calendar page for Sunday slowly closes. Thanks, God.

May Begins!

2010-05-06T07:56:00.000-05:00

And so it’s May already!

Time flies past a writer as they stop to smell the flowers, feel the rain and forget about turning calendar pages. All of a sudden it’s May and Mother’s Day is across the hall waiting for me to open the door. I try to ignore its knocking and hope this year it will just quietly go away.

But it won’t. And I’ll do what I ought, dutifully, some; and joyfully, some; and sadly, some.

It’s not that I don’t like to give gifts and be kind to my mother, don’t misunderstand me. My mom is one of those sweet sorts of people who are always amazed by the smallest gifts. I think it’s from her that I got the ability to appreciate the gesture beneath the gift. For many years I’ve made a point of bringing her flowers for Mother’s Day. She likes the flowers. I like the giving. We both smile and are glad for the smallest moment shared.

There are other “mother/friends” in my life, too. Those are harder to give gifts to. Mostly because they are far away. Their handprints are all over my life, though, and I try to live in such a way that they are clearly seen. My ability to love, be compassionate, to yearn for education, to encourage: those are learned traits from my many “mother/friends.”

As a mother, I play another role on Mother’s Day. I am the receiver. My sons probably don’t know that I have kept every card they ever gave me. Sometimes I take them out to see their little boy handwriting again, to rest in the memories of their need and admiration. I have their gifts, too. The little bell with the flower on it – glued together after a fall. The ceramic elephant gracefully proclaiming love. The pictures they painted and photographed. I watch their growth along this trinket road.

I’m so proud of my boys. They are good, strong young men. They stand tall, do right and have so much solid character. I revel in their accomplishments vicariously experiencing life through them. I love their gifts, but I long for more of their time.

I’m sad that I don’t get to enjoy them more. I sowed a lot of my life into theirs. I don’t regret any of that – any of the baseball games and music practices and late nights waiting up. I enjoyed most of it for my own selfish reasons. I wish that now I could enjoy the finished product more.

I watch my “other kids” the same way. The bus kids and church kids and neighborhood kids who have left behind the hurts of their childhood and found Someone who loves them unconditionally. From a distance, I watch for their pictures and thank God for sharing their lives with mine. Those are precious gifts received.

Mother’s Day and May, mostly, remind me of my Grandma. Mae was her name, for one and she loved spring. She loved flowers – lilacs and lily-of-the-valley and roses. Strong, fragrant, beautiful, strong blossoms that started to show themselves quietly in May.

I don’t know that it was her favorite time of year or her favorite month. It’s hard to say because she loved life and holidays and people so much it was hard to tell when was her favorite, or who.

I miss the smell of fresh baked bread in the morning and chicken dumpling soup in the afternoon. I miss the sound of the song she wrote and played on the organ – Redbird, I think she called it. I would know the tune if I heard it again, but I won’t. No one ever learned to play it except her. It was Grandma’s song only. I miss the sound of her voice on the phone or with Irene. The gentle play of words, the laugh at the end of a sentence. Or if something was really funny, the deep rich sound of her laughter. I miss her beautiful hands. Gentle and strong so lined with life and with care. Those hands that wrote the recipes and brushed my hair and mended my clothes and comforted my broken spirit. I miss those hands. I miss that touch.

I remember sitting before her once watching tv. I was on the floor in front of the couch and she was behind me. My head was just above the arm of the couch and she gently pulled my hair up and brushed it while we watched a movie. Such a personal caress. “You have such beautiful hair, Krissy, beautiful blonde soft hair.”

I can’t help but think, also, of my friends who are not mothers. Whose arms are empty and hearts are full of sadness. I feel like a glutton in the lavishness of my children and grandchildren, as though I have hoarded a treasure. My heart hurts for them and I try to share, but fear my sharing is mistaken for bragging. I pray they see the plan of Someone who knows their days.

Writers, remember, see the world through a different lens of experience. We keep those things we feel close to our heart until they won’t be still any longer. Then those words fall out all over the paper. We hope someone reads them and nods in complicity. We hope that they will bring a new level of understanding. We hope they are not abused.

Like a mixed spring bouquet, a plethora of thoughts and emotions bunch together in my hands today.

2010-03-20T21:57:00.000-05:00

Biology and English are not always on the same page. Well, to be honest, they aren’t generally in the same part of the library. So what’s a writer doing in a human genetics class? Learning.

It’s required. Everyone has to take a little bit of everything. It’s true. I admit it. I would never have chosen a Science course for an elective. Left to my own narrow-minded choices I would have taken a literature class or a writing class or even an art class. But Science? No, thanks. I’ll pass.

But to pass this level, I couldn’t pass this class and so now I’m just trying to pass.

And finding a whole new world to explore.

Writers are, after all, thinkers who express their thoughts and hope someone understands. Scientists are thinkers who explore their thoughts and hope someone can communicate them.

I guess we’re not so far apart after all.

This particular Science course is student-ed by a rather interesting cross-section of women. Several are divorced, but not all. Most have kids, but not all. Some have had great difficulties with marriage, divorce, pregnancies and kids, but not all. We talk about those things in this class as we explore the link between past, present and future through DNA diagrams.

There have been confessions of small-minded frustration. Admissions, and repentance, of personal bigotries. Dissections of character splayed on reflections of ourselves. What would we do if we could choose to have a perfect child? What do we think about knowing things our grandparents feared? How far would we search and how much would the answers be worth?

Human genetic research has made us consider what we’re made of.

Our professor tries to guide the learning and discussion and, I fear, has found curiosity has a life of its own in this class. Well-planned lessons fall behind as the learners push and pull the knowledge from her and one another. There are things we must know to say we have been here, but then there are things which we are taught here unexpectedly. For example, what it feels like to struggle through infertility; how an adopted child considers their biology; the fear of family history.

It stretches our minds as we try to wrap our intelligence around the idea that miniscule strings coiled within our cells map out our identity. Whether we have blonde hair or brown; we are tall or short; we will have early onset Alzehimer’s or clear minds and wasted bodies. It’s there!

The value of a human life, marred or perfect, has been the elephant in the room. The idea of a perfect genetic race is not new to mankind. It seems we humans have no lack of the superiority gene. Yet, when considering our own imperfections balanced against someone else’s perceptions, we can’t help but wonder if we are invalid. What determines the value of a human life? Or Who?

We toss about hypotheticals questioning our own ideas. What would we do if we could know it all? For ourselves? For our children?

But do we want to know all of it?

What will we do with that knowledge? If we can obtain it? Because who can afford it? Not me. Not now, for sure.

Or does looking at my family pedigree tell me all I need to know? I am likely to be overweight, depressed, diabetic, have heart disease and die in my 60s. That’s what my family tree says. Of course, I can watch what I eat, keep a positive mental attitude (prayer, helps, of course), and get hit by a truck tomorrow.

There are no guarantees. We are given this life to live and live we ought.

I’d like to know the worst case scenario for my future health. I’d like to be able to prepare myself and my family and make sure I don’t become someone’s problem.

I don’t think it would change my lifestyle. I would still try to live fully each day. To enjoy the blessings as they unfold, to sorrow the sadness when it crosses my path, to love lavishly, to serve God as well as I’m able. That’s the core of my life, honestly.

The more I consider the details of creation, the more convinced I become that Someone has set it all in order. To me, Science proves creation was on purpose.
All these thoughts are those which I see written around the beakers, the test tubes, the micro-needle-looking-holder-things, the PowerPoint slides, the textbooks and laptops. I may never understand the modes of inheritance or get a correct probability, but I have learned to articulate the value of life.

That’s knowledge to pass on.

Before I Know It . . .

2010-03-11T22:24:00.000-06:00

I over heard someone say today, “I’m 59 and ½. Before I know it, I’ll be 60.”

It occurred to me that my dad was that age once. Looking at 60, but not quite there.

And then he wasn’t anymore.

I wonder what he thought of his life.

Was he glad for the choices he made? He was always smiling.

Was he sad for the doors he closed? He was always going.

Did the anger fill his thoughts? It spilled from his words like a vile poison, acidly eating away at his peace.

You could see it in his eyes. Bluer than blue; colder than ice.

You could feel it in the tension around his smile; gripped, tightly held inside.

His strong, large hands shook when he talked about some things, some people.

Nervously they gripped his Zippo lighter, his cigarette or strummed on the table extending energy in measured bites.

Did he ever consider the other days?

The tickly, laughing, giggly days? When his daughters walked on his back to relieve the stress of life and his son strode beside him?

“That’s nuts.” And he’d laugh. A deep, sarcastic, throw-your-head-back and guffaw laugh. “Oh jeez!” tears falling down his face and laughing, laughing, laughing.

Did he remember the one wedding dance? The one where he wore the suit we picked for him? The one where he posed for pictures with his lovely teen-age daughters? The one where pride puffed his chest until he was cockier, jauntier than all the other dads in pictures?

Did he look back to those days when he looked ahead to 60 and wish to re-live them?
Or did he only see the trouble, the loss, the heartaches playing over and over? Did he feel the kicks that life dealt him and sink beneath their darkness?

Were there too many seasons between the living and the existing? Were there too many blank pages? Too much aloneness? Too much burden?

I wasn’t there. I don’t know what the record of his days holds. Time, circumstance, apathy pushed a gulf between us that I didn’t cross.

I would give anything to go back to those days and help him re-write the story. To fill in the missing places with memories and peace. To overshadow the sadness with contentment. To share his grandsons’ accomplishments and joys. To let his hands carry them from past to present.

But I can’t. It’s too late. The book is written, the cover is closed.

I hope I’ve learned the lesson of his life so when I’m looking at 60 the air is clouded with children’s voices, graceful hands and contented sighs.

Today, 60 is far away and my life is rich. I know I must keep investing, continue sharing, love lavishly with arms wide open. Teach and guide and learn and grow.

Today is my present from the Lord, the Author and finisher of my faith.

Today I will live completely so when my book closes, the fullness of my life pushes the cover open again and again.

2010-02-24T18:51:00.000-06:00

How does a writer read?

Well, I can tell you how writers don’t read. We don’t read to be critical or negative or tear down another writer. Writers are generally encouraging and positive when discussing someone else’s writing.

That said, writers hold one another to a high standard. We don’t settle for drivel set on a page by someone who ought to be selling candles. We don’t appreciate a churned out effort made only for the sake of a paycheck. We aren’t always kind when discussing that type of writing.

Writers look for the emotion and depth of words presented on the page. We find the rest of the story that lives in the white space. It’s funny to me to listen to writers talk about books. “I think what he meant by that was . ..” “Clearly, she was talking about this because on page 54 she said that which was a foreshadow to this on page 97.”

How do we know?

Because it’s what we do. We play these games with words and explain and express and emote until the reader is so immersed they don’t even know how they got there. Unless the reader is a writer. Then the writer reader will see that which is not written. They will play the game and tumble along from thought to thought.

Here is a piece of a review of the novella by Tolstoy I wrote several years ago for 90&9, “Woven through this beautiful allegory of giving is a sense of common beauty. The beauty of family life and community breathe through every chapter. Tolstoy’s characters live simply, unburdened by the traps of possessions. They have one another. They have their work. They have God. What else could they need? They are not oblivious to the grand riches of the wealthy around them. Rather, they are satisfied with the richness of their relationships.” All that from a few pages of writing. Oh, but Tolstoy is so grand to read! You feel as though you are sitting at the feet of a great man when you turn the pages of his books.

Writers read to sharpen themselves. We like to see what else has been done. Not to copy one another, ever. But to find ways to make ourselves better. We love to read. We love to expand our knowledge, to find better ways to express ourselves.
We don’t despise shallow writing, but we do frown upon it. I find myself reading shallow books to distract me from reality when nothing else is available. I find myself reading real books when I have moments to revel in their goodness.

Writers love to read. Here are some specific examples of how I read, as a writer and some thoughts about what I have read. Perhaps you would like them, too. Let me know.

Albom Bestsellers Stick to Your Conscience
By Kris Newman
January 19, 2004
http://ninetyandnine.com/Archives/20040119/review.htm -

Tolstoy? Timeless!
What Men Live By
By Kris A. Newman
November 3, 2003
http://ninetyandnine.com/Archives/20031103/review_2.htm

I am a Writer.

2010-02-02T06:10:00.000-06:00

I remember when I was 13 and working on writing something. A friend innocently asked, “are you going to be a writer?”

“Yes.” Definitive answer, but of course, what else? How could they ask such a silly question.

Over the years I have written many things. Poems, plays, stories, album and book reviews. Give me an occasion, give me an audience, and I’ll write something for you.

My answer to the “are you a writer” question has evolved, too. “I do some writing.”
As recently as last summer someone asked me what I was going to do with my English degree when I finally have it in hand. “I’d like to get published, maybe teach writing.”

I am learning now that one does not become a writer, one simply is. I am required to write for my classes. A certain particular level of expectation is placed upon me by my professors. I am not “doing some writing,” I am expressing through writing.

In Hallucinating Foucault, Patricia Duncker says, “The identity of a writer is always a subject for speculation.” That set me to thinking. Why is it so difficult to tell who a writer is? Because a writer is always changing, always absorbing the atmosphere, always experiencing something. A writer doesn’t go for a walk. A writer immerses themselves in the world touching the flowers, smelling the factory smoke, hearing the colors, feeling the music of the day. A writer is constantly becoming someone new.

A writer cannot be a distant friend regardless of how alone they appear. A writer will experience the lives of those around her. A writer feels differently than everyone else. A writer may try to closet themselves away, to be separate. Don’t be fooled by this silence. It is only in response to her depth of emotion that she cuts herself away. When she simply cannot bear the burden any longer, she must be alone to write.

A writer is never content, never satisfied, never finished. There is always something else pushing a writer to continue. Words haunt a writer’s mind. Floating above the common scene, words dart about waiting to be captured by the writer. Once the expressions begin, a writer cannot stop until the picture is painted. Completely.

I can no more just “do some writing.” I must empty myself of the emotions, expressions, experiences which have grown in me, around me, through me.

I am a writer.