Stained Glass

The poem below was written one morning in church as I looked at the stained glass windows in the sanctuary.  It occurred to me my life resembled the picture before me.  The words fell into my mind and onto my paper.

The poem is part of my first book, The Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges.  If you like it, you might like the book.  Today I post it for a friend so she, too, can see the whole picture through a writer's eyes.

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Stained Glass

 

cast down, but not forsaken . . .  2 Cor. 4:9

Shards of glass
broken
jagged
useless

cast down carelessly
thoughtlessly
dreams shattered
paradigms shifted

colored by
time, circumstance
events undeserved
unsolicited
unplanned
stained, changed

and then

carefully chosen
cautiously handled
rejoined

placed in perfect order
welded together
by crimson
ribbons
dried, strengthened
new creation

story unfolding
light singing through
impacting the darkness
by a filtered Son

with every broken, jagged edge
I will praise You.

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To order a copy of 
A Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges or a Friend Named Jesus, 
please visit my website:  Writer's Pages

Facebook:  Author Kris A. Newman

Edge of the Bridge

It's been kind of an exciting bit of time.  For a writer, anyway.

A couple of chance meetings, a couple of tentative sendings, a couple of calls here and there.... and suddenly I'm working on a feature piece for a magazine and have my books offered in three different markets - four if you consider that one of the markets will take the books on the road.

I just keep shaking my head.  Is this really happening?

I have you to thank, to begin with.  You blog readers who have clicked this page more than 5,000 times.  You made me think the net of my audience could be, and maybe should be, shaken wider than my friends and co-workers.  So, thanks.

I have my professors to thank, too.  Those people who kept writing A at the tops of papers.  Let's not forget my classmates who gave my voice permission.  Those people who inhabit the halls of St. Kate's from one building to another.  Those people who asked my opinion and agreed and challenged and shared.  Iron sharpening iron in a most creative way.

I have random connected friends to thank, too.  The people I have met here and there along the way who answered my nagging questions, gave me numbers and dropped names.  One whole entire circle started with a book in a backseat.  Someone asked,"Is this a good book?"  Someone answered, "Yeah."  Small talk strung over weeks and ending with my books being offered through Pentecostal Publishing House online and at Family Camp in Minnesota and Wisconsin.

Random?

Another event, another conversation, more small talk, "we are adopting a child from foster care."  "Thank you for taking care of foster kids."  One phrase lead to another until the words, "we have to talk!"  Interviews conducted, writing commencing, feature piece shaping. 

The Poetry Bridge in Minneapolis looks over the Sculpture Garden at one end.  Just a little beyond the bridge is a brass piece of a bell and a rabbit jumping over it.  I don't remember what it's called, but I can see its whimsy frolic through my memory.  It's just a fun piece.  The rabbit leaping an impossible height.  Behind the rabbit and bell is the unimaginably large spoon and cherry daring the world to defy its existence.  The sun and clouds reflected in red, the pond held at its base.  Fun.

That's the view from that edge of the bridge once you cross it.

That's how I feel today.  Like I'm looking over the edge to a place where impossible things become easy to believe.  A spoon and cherry can garishly throw themselves into the sky.  A rabbit can hop over a 5 foot bell.  Anything can happen! 

I don't believe in random, really.  I believe my steps are ordered by God.  My writing has a purpose.  My words will validate the existence of someone and minister grace to someone else.

I'm at the edge of the bridge again, but this time I'm above the impossible, full of faith, excited to see what's next and confident that He who has begun a good work in me will continue it.

Thanks, God.



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To order a copy of A Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges or a Friend Named Jesus, please visit my website:  Writer's Pages

Facebook:  Author Kris A. Newman

Dyin' Inside - Blog Contest Winner

Following is another winning entry from the Blog Contest.  Originally posted by Mark Showalter on his blog which can be found here:  Mark Showalter's Blog

Thanks to Mark for making a showcase for talent!

I’m the kind of girl who hates to cry
I cover up with a laugh but really I’m dyin’ inside
I’d stay up late into the night
Crying because I couldn’t face the light,
I was dyin’ inside
Dyin’ inside

Mia put down her pen and began strumming on her guitar; her lips moved as she silently mouthed the words of this first verse of a song she was writing. If there was one thing she knew, it was pain. Not physical pain, but a constant pain she kept inside.

Her parents had no idea how she felt, and she didn’t know how to approach them with something like this. She’d never felt very special. She’d always been overshadowed by the achievements of her younger brothers and sisters. It hurt, knowing that her parents weren’t as proud or as happy about what she was interested in. What hurt even more was the fact that when she expressed an interest in music, neither of her parents seemed to notice, whereas when her younger sister expressed an interest in it, they went out of their way to teach her what she wanted to know.

She picked up her pen again and began writing.

Do you know what that feels like?
People not seeing through your disguise?
I’m waiting for someone who’s brave enough to see
That through this mask that something’s killing me
I’m dyin’ inside
Dyin’ inside

Mia brushed away another tear and picked up her phone and read the text message. It was from Tammy.
'Hey,' it said, 'how are you doing?'

'Heyyy Tammaayy I’m doing okay I guess,' Mia quickly texted back.

'That’s great!' Tammy replied.

Mia pressed her lips together and kept writing the song. Then, another text came, and the personalized ringtone sang, “I love you more than the sun and the stars that I taught how to shine…”

'Is everything okay?' Ashlynn, the youth pastor’s sister, had just texted her.

Another text from Ashlynn: 'I just felt an overwhelming urge to pray for you. I just wanted you to know that I’m here for you whenever you need anything!'

Mia felt tears welling up in her eyes as she continued writing.

I’ve fooled everyone with a laugh and a smile
I try to shake these feelings for a while
But then I heard Someone whispering my name
You said, “Come here child, I’ll hold you tight
“I’ll give you peace to deal with this hectic life,
“I’ll give you strength so that you can keep holding on tight,
“I’ll give you hope so that you will keep going on,
“I’ll give you life so that you can stop dyin’ inside.”
Dyin’ inside

'Thanks, Ash! I’ve actually been battling feelings of inadequacy and bitterness.'

After a short pause, Mia quickly sent another text. 'Sorry, I sound like I’m whining!'

'It’s okay, girl! Never feel ashamed to tell me what’s really bothering you, came the reply. But I think God wants you to know that He’s holding you right now. Even when you can’t feel it. He’s always got your back! And I do too!'

Mia continued writing the song.

So know I can finally see
And I finally accept and believe
That Jesus has got my back
He’s got it through the attack
But for anyone who is struggling with life
For anyone who’s dyin’ inside

'Hey, Mia!' Greg, a friend from her church who was like the older brother she never had, texted her. 'Got some pretty amazing news: you don’t have to die anymore. Jesus is right by your side. Just keep holding on! P.S. Hebrews 13:5 “…I will neither leave thee nor forsake thee.” P.S. 2… I really don’t know why I just told you that…but I hope it helps!'

The amazing part was that Mia hadn’t even told him about how she’d been feeling.

Another verse was added to the song:

You don’t have to die anymore
He’s here to calm all your storms
So go on, run into His arms
Where He’ll keep you safe from all harm

Her phone rang. At first she ignored it, trying to think of what seemed to be missing, until she heard the lyrics from the personalized ringtone: “…If you’re a ship and you’re lost in the ocean, I’ll be the wind in your sails, give you motion, I will guide you home…”

She answered it.

“Hello?”

“I wanted to say this so that you could hear it, instead of just reading it through a text,” the person on the other line said. She recognized the voice and smiled. It was Jackie, her friend back in Wisconsin.
“Hey, what’s up, Jackie?”

“Remember that melody line that you sang right before you moved?” Jackie asked.

“Yeah…”

“I had an idea. It’s just a few lines, but I’ve got something.”

“Okay, let’s hear it.”

Those last four lines were the end of her song:

Now I’m not saying life won’t be hard
But I know that God is never far
He’s always been by your side
He’s always been holding you tight

Soon after hanging up with Jackie, her phone rang again. Mia sighed and smiled through tears that she hadn’t realized had been falling down her cheeks, wondering if she’d ever get some peace to actually play through the whole song and answered the phone.

“Hey, dad!”

“Hey, Mia,” her father said. “I just wanted to say that I’m proud of you. Love you!” then hung up.

Mia cried. She’d never felt so happy. God knew exactly what she’d needed. And His timing couldn’t have been more perfect.

And she was finally able to play through the song.

Bapka's House - Open for Business!

Recently I had a Bapka kind of day.  You know, the kind of day when memories are made that will make permanent impressions.

The good kind, I think.

It was Mother's Day - first of all.  Which is a great day for memories all by itself.  Church and flowers and lots of hugs from all sorts of places.

But Bapkas aren't just for hugs and kisses in church.  We have this other layer of attention to give and receive.

When I was growing up my Grandma's house was the place to be when this or that had you under the weather.  Whether it was strep throat or mumps or a bad cold or stomach aches - Grandma could somehow make it better.  I don't know how she never seemed to get sick herself with every sick person in 100 miles arriving at her door, but she didn't.

She always had a bowl of chicken soup and ice cream ready just in case.

Even better, Grandma somehow could fix the ailments of the heart variety.  I can't tell you how many times I came in on conversations between Grandma and some heartbroken soul sorting through a difficulty. More than once the cares of the world were tossed onto Grandma's table, sorted through like buttons from the tin, properly arranged and solved.  Grandma always seemed to have the right words.

And the right amount of coffee and cake.

At the end of the counseling, the patient would leave and Grandma would pick up the tablecloth and toss out the cares with the crumbs into the wind in the back yard.

I want my house to be like that.  A place where laughter and tears are equally comfortable.  Grandma taught me we are in this world to help one another - large and small.

I'm sorry Arthur was sick on Mother's Day.  I know how much he enjoys the bustle and activity of his other Grandma's farm, but I'm so very glad for him - and me - that Bapka's house was here.  A bit of quiet, a couple of movies, some ice cream and his temps were lower, his throat not as sore and both of us with a heart full at the end of the day.

I may not always have the right words and my chicken soup might carry the Campbell's label, but I'll do my best to minister grace just like Grandma.   Bapka's house is open for business!

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Readers - I will be at a book signing event in Chippewa Falls on Saturday, May 26 from 11:00 to 3:00.  The Book Cellar - the only bookstore in Chippewa County - is hosting the event.  Please stop by and see us!  More information can be found here:  The Book Cellar.


Books can also be ordered at the webstore on our website at:  A Writer's Pages.

Thanks for being the best readers ever!
- Kris

English and Science and Life

I'm not one to re-post previous posts, but I just read this post that was posted when I was struggling to get my way through school and I thought I might post it again.  I have many new readers so maybe you haven't read this before.

 It's about school and life and what we're made of.  Something to consider.  Yes, I did learn a lot of things at St. Kate's.  Can't believe it's coming up on a year since I graduated.  This season I'm in is passing slowly.

As always, I hope my rambly words gives you something to think about.

Just exactly what are you made of?

March 20, 2010

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.

Next Slice of Life

It has flat out been an almighty long time since I sat down to write.

Anything. 

Well, anything not work related.  And even that is mostly someone else’s words to get someone else’s message out to someone else.

But for me to just let my words ramble, it’s been awhile.  Busy living life, I guess.

I bought a house.  That was a bit of a time for me.  Waiting to see if there was any possible way it could happen, waiting for the disappointment which I was sure was to come, waiting for the final straw that would break this camel’s back.

But all those black words were held back by some unseen Hand.

Instead, the mortgage was granted.  The money came through.  The miracle was known.

Then came the packing and the moving and the unpacking.

Well, the unpacking is still to be done.  I figure I have 30 years.  I can take my time.  No one else here seems to mind.

It’s different, this home ownership thing.  I like it, mostly.  I haven’t really been here much, truth be told.  I have work to do and people to see and relationships to build.  It’s a good season, but busy.

Spring has opened its door to us, too.  One day we had snow – lots of it, heavy, slushy wet and chilly snow.  Piled up hither and yon and making the world a dangerous place to drive.

The next day it was spring.  50 and then 60 and then 70 – almost 80 degrees.  We’re not even done with March, yet, and it’s practically summer out there.

But some seasons are like that.  You don’t expect them to end.  You think they are going to be here awhile and you kind of get used to them.  The crowded space gets comfortable.  The negatives surrounding you become bearable, even familiar enough that you don’t try to change them.

Then.

Suddenly.

The season changes.

You wake up and it’s 70 degrees and you own a house with a yard and a garage.  It doesn’t seem possible, this new season, but there it is.  You can’t deny the flowers budding.  You can shut your eyes, but when you open them, the sun will still be shining.

I want to walk on this water to test it out and see if it’s real, but I’m afraid if I push too far the curtain will fall and I’ll realize it was only a short act before the final scene. 

Maybe that’s what’s kept me from writing.  Putting the words on paper gives them credence and life. 

So.  Here they are.  The words that need life.

I own a house.  I have a college degree.  I have a car.  There are two books floating around the universe right now with my name on the cover as author.  Me.  Kris A. Newman.  My kids are grown and amazing.  I have a vast, eclectic collection of friends and kids and people I love.  I have memories of incredible, frightening, hilarious, amazing times through which I’ve lived.

I crossed the bridge.

The season changed.

I’m alive.

Thanks, God.

Ok.  Let’s start the next slice of time…..

One Hundred and Forty

Below is another winner from the January blog contest hosted by my friend, Mark Showalter.  I found this piece to be particularly relevant to the times we live in.  It's a great picture of the way this generation communicates.

Kudos to Corey Boyte for taking a simple thought and giving it great depth!  Count your words wisely today.

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One Hundred and Forty

The number 140 holds more power than any other number.  It limits thoughts, it is the barb-wired fence of ideas, it is the cataclysmic death to a train of words formed together to make a sentence. Unlike most other social media sites, 140 commands a person to use word combinations to prove a point in a way that requires skill, determination, and a perfunctory grasp on whatever language they speak (if you're like me, we can both forget about that last statement).  You may have a world changing idea. You may have a universally renown invention just waiting to be shared with all mankind. You may hold a thought that will absolutely revolutionize your surroundings. If it ain't 140 characters or less, baby, it ain't gonna happen. Unless of course you go ahead and post that idea and then all of your followers have to click on a link that takes them to a special page where they can view the entirety of your message, increasing the chance of picking up spam by, oh let's say, 36%. I mean let's face it. Who clicks on those links anyway? If it ain't under 140, Skippy, I ain't gonna read it.

And now they are storing every tweet. Yep. Big brother. Eagle eye. Conspiracy central. Logging. Every. Tweet. Imagine what that will look like. I wonder who's job it is to have to read and file Paris Hilton's drunken tweets, Miley Cyrus' gleeful thank yous for another sold out show, words of unspoken love that make one want to puke (hey, I’m guilty of this one), President Obama's calls for changes, or your pastor's encouraging words?  Could it be possible that the whole world that Jesus talked about in Matthew 28 may be able to be squeezed under the microscope of social media and be seen as 140 characters? And last time I checked it was in our job description to reach this whole world. Could it be done in 140 characters? The chances are looking very good my friend.

I was reminded of the power these 140 characters have several months ago after the passing of Steve Jobs. Inspiration hit. I was ready. I was determined. I whipped out my iPhone (thank you Mr. Jobs) and pecked away.  So I tweeted:

“The creator of the iPad, iPhone, iTouch, and iMac now faces the iAm.  Life is short folks. “

And that was that.

And then I got retweeted. And retweeted. And retweeted. People I didn't even know retweeted me. People who are so far out of my league in ministry. Yet they liked something I said good enough to retweet it to hundreds of other people. Would it have been effective if it had been more than 140 characters? Absolutely not.

I believe a true Christian will behave in a 140 character fashion. Concise, readable, inspiring, captivating, retweetable. Not having to look to other people to get their  "rest of the story" but rather they write their own story. And the words of their story cannot be found on the pages of black and white, phones, or computer screens. No. Their story is written in Red, dipped in the ink of the Blood of the Lamb, forever changed. Amazing grace, how sweet the sound. 

To the reader of this post, you just may be 140 characters from changing the world. Use them wisely.