This Thing About Families

This thing about families.  It’s not about a name or a place to live or a status to have.

It’s about belonging.

It’s about walking into a crowded room and knowing where to sit and who to talk to.  It’s about not ever knocking on a door, but always just walking in.  It’s about being sick and knowing someone will go to the store for you, make soup for you, pray for you.  It’s about reaching out and finding a welcome hand.  It’s about being inclusive, never excluded.

It’s a hard thing for me to understand.

It’s not about time spent or even calls made.  Although those are nice and welcome.  But family doesn’t count the days between, only the hours with.  Family thinks about you when you’re not there and talks about you like you’re just around the corner.  “My sister always loves….,” “My brother always says ….”

Family knows you – really – and accepts you anyway.

Your fears are their opportunities to be a hero.  Your joy is a reason for them to laugh.  Your tears are a reason for the to problem solve or share or fight.


It’s holiday times and create a memory times and everyday times when you just need to be alone with people who know you.  Take the mask off, lay down the shield.  It’s refreshing and resting and sometimes even arguing, but knowing once you blow your stack and spill the beans and all the volcanic ash is everywhere but in, you still have someone to grab a cup of coffee with and a smile to share.  Family helps you find the boundaries.

I have seen it often – but not always – at church.  I have known it with certain friends, but not all.  I’ve even felt it in some workplaces.  Not all, but some.  It’s like you’re covered, held, welcomed.

Most people silently push away, exclude, separate from others.  


Family pulls you in.  


It’s not culture, color, religion, location, time that builds family.  I have family in Africa, Asia, America.  I’ve known some for all my life, some share my DNA.  They represent many religions, many socio-economic levels.  Some are very wealthy.  Some are very far below the poverty line.

Some share pages and pages of history with me.  Some only a few paragraphs.

I’m mostly afraid of the family thing.  Afraid I am over-assuming my place. Afraid I am over-assuming their acceptance of me.  I stay back a little just in case.  So, if they reject me, no one will see.  I am cautious until I know for sure that if  I walk into a crowded room and I see family, I know where I belong. 

No Strangers

I had a quick writer moment recently at a coffee shop.  They strike me at the oddest times: these words that grow from sentence to paragraph to story.

My colleague and I had ducked in for a quick purchase when we ran into mutual friends.  A very pleasant exchange set a friendly mood which carried over to the coffee order.  The clerk picked up on it, and our English language, and cordially joined the chatter.  In the minute it took to order, I learned he had just been promoted to Manager of the store. 

To me, the conversation was normal.  People sharing the path of life for a short moment.

To my young colleague, however, it was something new.  People divulging personal information in an odd setting.  She assumed for the clerk to tell me his news we must be familiar.

“I see they know you here, as well.”   

“No, not at all.”  I answered.

The phrase turned in my mind the rest of the day.  “I see they know you here.” 

It’s not the first time I have heard something similar, especially here in Moscow.  To me it’s natural to make a friend wherever I go.  If not a friend, at least an accomplice in hilarity or a co-conspirator in joy or, sometimes, just a fellow traveler to share the weariness of the path. 

These bridges are constructed in the simplest of forms.  A smile, a hand gesture, a soft word, a reaching across from my side of the human experience into theirs. 

I didn’t know everyone didn’t do this and I don’t know where I learned it.  I think it was my dad, actually, and my Grandma.  Yes, definitely those two.

My dad wasn’t always a nice man and not often a good man, actually.  But he had friends wherever he went.  Every financial transaction he made began as business and ended with friendship. 

I can hear his voice at the corner store.  “Can I get a pack of Big Red gum, too?” 

A tired clerk would reach for it, throw it on the counter, say the amount, wait for cash.

My dad would respond with, “Need to make sure I’m ready in case I meet a beautiful blonde.” 

The clerk (male or female) would smile in complicity.  A friend was made.

My Grandma had a different approach.  “Just bring them with you.”  She was often heard saying.   And if they would come (whoever they were), she would set out the best of the day for them.  It wasn’t always society’s best, but it was her best of whatever with a main ingredient of love. 

“Do you want some soup?  I made it today.  Oh, it’s so good!  Here let me get you some.  And here’s coffee, too.  Did you want some coffee?  Sit down.  Here.  I’m glad you’re here.  Now.  Tell me about you.”

She would sit in her corner rocking chair and listen.  Sometimes throwing out a word or a question, but always listening. 

And the people came from everywhere to talk to her.  I watched it my whole life. 

Every day it seemed someone’s cousin or uncle or co-worker would have been at the table while I was at school.  If I was out and my friends stopped by, they would leave before I got home because they hadn’t come to see me, but to see her!  Tough teen-age, knife carrying punks would stop in for coffee and soup and to talk. 

It wasn’t only for a day, sometimes also for a night.  More than once concerned parents were on the phone or at our door and I would hear Grandma say, “Come in.  Yes, he was here.  I made sure he was safe last night and I gave him a good breakfast before school, but then I don’t know where he went.” 

Then a counseling session would begin with Grandma trying to help another frustrated parent figure out how to parent a strong-willed child. 

So to me, it’s natural to make family-friends and casual-friends and clerk-friends and to not meet a stranger.  I guess it’s my super power.

My siblings are the same.  It’s most fun when we are together meeting strangers. 

One of my favorite memories is of walking in New York City with my sister.  It was autumn and the world was aglow with yellow and orange leaves.  We had spent the day roaming Manhattan and were almost finished with that chapter when we came upon street vendors selling hats, sweatshirts and trinkets.  I knew I wanted a sweat shirt for my son and she knew she wanted a hat so we kind of took over the two tables before us. 

The vendors tried to begin with their usual sales pitch, but quickly realized it wasn’t necessary.  We didn’t need to be convinced.   Banter replaced pitch and before they knew it they were giving us discounts and free items.   We left laughter and genuine memories behind as we bustled to the ferry.

Later that day we shared our news with a native New Yorker friend.

“I bought these two sweatshirts for $20.  I made such a mess of his table searching for this XXL.  Poor guy.  I was trying to fix things as I found them and he gave me a free key chain.  Can you believe it?  Wasn’t that nice?’ I said.

Tina added, “My guy was hilarious!  You should have heard me when he asked if I wanted a princess hat!  Princess?  Oh my word!  I think this hat was $15, but I think I paid $10.  I’m not even sure.  He said I got the blonde discount!  Isn’t that hilarious?” 

My New Yorker friend just shook his head.  “I don’t know what it is about you two, but that doesn’t happen in New York.  If anyone else told me that story, I wouldn’t believe them.  Prices get raised for tourists, not lowered.  But you?  I don’t doubt it at all.

It happens to me all the time.  I think it’s not me that feels familiar.  It’s the presence of God in my life.  Me, I’m so far from good enough.  But with Him working in my life, there is an extra ingredient that makes people comfortable, casual, friendly.

I’m glad for it.  It means that God is answering my prayers.

I pray for an open home and an open heart.  I pray that God will take away the caustic, jagged side of my words and attitude daily.  I pray for eyes to see the world like He does.  I pray for hands to reach with gentleness and grace.  

“May all who enter as guests leave as friends” is the motto for my home and my heart.

“I see they know You here, as well.”  It’s a compliment. 

Simpler Thoughts

For those of you who need something simple and plain to think about today, here's a little flashback to a quainter subject.  A couple of years ago I was involved in a platform boosting campaign that did, surely, boost my readership.  I posted the piece below as part of that.  I find this list of ten things about me to be interesting in that they are still ten things I would list if someone really wanted to know about me.

But what would really be interesting to me is if you, my readers, would tell me some things about you!  Drop me a comment, stop by the website listed below, friend me on Facebook.  My writer's mind is so curious to know your story!


So, dear reader, tell me ten things about you!


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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.

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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

So Proud of You!

In the last month I have had the opportunity to see a lot of good things and hear about a lot of sad things.  Life is like that sometimes.  Focusing on the good helps us to overcome the bad.

Several times I heard my voice saying, “I’m proud of you” to one member or another of the younger generation.  And I mean it.  I am sure I enjoy children more than the average Bapka, but I revel in their grown-up accomplishments.  It makes my heart smile.

I don’t even have to have a real, solid, individual connection to an accomplished young person to feel pride for them.  It is not that I feel as though I had anything to do with their success.  I just like to see people doing well what they do.  I am energized by their energy.

So, what’s happened, you ask?  Get your coffee and let me encourage you a bit.

I went to a concert in Bloomington, Minnesota on a recent Friday night.  I watched a family of girls singing praises in perfect harmony and genuine joy who made my heart smile.  I saw a young man on the keyboard smiling, laughing, organizing an event which wove lives together from hither and yon.  I heard a band of young men playing in synch full of energy and life!  The next day, the same group got together for brunch.  Iron sharpening iron, their stories unknown to one another, but often read by me.  

They thought they shared a love of music and Jesus only.  If I had been an artist, I might have drawn above them a picture of the brokenness that really draws them together.  I know their stories, each.  I have watched them face tragedy, humiliation, trauma and other difficulties that - to someone else - might have justified drug use, alcoholism, violence, bitterness, cynicism.  Instead, there they were giving hope and compassion to the world.  Using their talents as a vehicle for good to change the world.   Doing well.

And making me say over and again, “I’m so proud of you.”

Another church, another day, I heard the words again repeated.  Different circumstances, different story, but the depth of the phrase rang ever more true.

This time I had spent a conversant hour with two very dear friends.  I listened, mostly, to them share their grief over someone’s failure.  Their personal sadness, their personal “did I do enough?” questions, their personal fears laid bare.  My heart hurt for them because I understand the personal sense of loss when you watch someone failing.  You can’t chose their path, you can’t walk their steps, you can’t turn them back when they misjudge.  

You can only question yourself again and again, “did I do all I could to help them?”

Funny how I feel so personally connected to someone’s failure.  As though it’s all my fault.  

But I never feel responsible for someone’s success.  As though it’s because of me.

I remember teaching my son, Johnathon, to ride a bike.  We lived at the bottom of a steep hill and it seemed a perfect solution.  I could help him up the hill a way and then gravity would help him go down the hill making it a little less strenuous on me.  Up we would go and down again with me holding the handlebars or the back of the seat and trying to help him learn to balance.  As soon as he would falter, I would be there to right him. 

Encouragement filled the air, “You are doing great!  Look at you!  See?  You can do this.”

It didn’t take long, not nearly long enough to me.  I let go and there he went!  Wind throwing his hair back, daredevil smile covering his face, laughter bubbling!  “You did it!” I called.

If he fell, it would surely have been my fault.  I would be readily on hand to clean the wounds, comfort the boy and fix the bike.  But when he rode away, it was all on him.  

That’s how I feel when I say, “I’m so proud of you.”  I mean I’m glad you are spreading your wings and doing well.  Go farther, do more, leave me in the dust!  

But if you start to falter, I’ll be here to catch you.  I'll do all I can to get you started again.  Heavy hearted, sad for the loss, disappointed in myself for not doing more to hold you up – I’ll be here.    

And when we get the bike off the ground and the wind is lifting you again, I’ll say even more decidedly, “I’m so proud of 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

A Writer at Camp

My heart is absolutely overflowing with words today.  Some good, some sad, some sappy.

I spent time at Wisconsin District Family Camp last week.  Love those camp grounds.  One of my favorite places on the planet.  I really hope my boys find a way to scatter my ashes there.  So many good memories of good, good days floating around that atmosphere. 

Laughter and tears and quiet, calm, refreshing moments.  I wrote Summer Morning Song there.  I can still see the morning I wrote it.  I had gone to morning prayer and coming back to the room I was silenced by the feel of the sun on my skin, the song of the birds and trees and the surrounding presence of God.  I sat on the steps of the double-deckers and let the words fall onto the page.

I see myself again, there, another time, another summer morning.  Sitting by the fire pit.  Emotions swirling around me.  Difficulties waiting for me at home.  My soul in turmoil.  But for that moment, for that dot of time on the line, absolute peace and quiet blanketed me. 

I watched my children grow up there.  It was as though some strange vitamin was in the water.  They would start a week of Family Camp or Junior Camp at one age, and leave another.  The responsibilities they were allowed, the expectations placed on them, the pride bestowed upon them expanded their thinking and they grew exponentially. 

The year of the tornado is a good example.  Violence filled the air, but calm undergirded the Tabernacle.  Most mothers’ children were huddling under pews praying for their lives.  My children were not.  They worked beside the adults in charge.  They brought water and comfort.  I watched them both, boys only on the outside, but men's character on the inside, as they quietly did whatever was asked of them.  

I’m not sure which honor pulled them taller – platform ministry or security.  Being allowed to sing and play is a big deal at Camp.  It starts at Junior Camp or Children’s Church when a Director approaches and asks, “can you help us today?”  Those Director types they aren’t only looking for talent, but desire and compassion.  I’m pretty sure the Children’s Church platform is the first to have hosted Johnathon and Mathias, but surely not the last.

Thi was six the first year he helped with Security.  Not officially, of course, but because the Security Director was on crutches, Thi became the tray-carrier, drink-getter, runner-arounder.  The golf cart made him taller, I’m sure.  Johnathon worked Security, too, on and off, but I couldn’t tell you when it started.  The years fold together in a flip-book of blurred images. 

Funny, looking back I don’t remember the sleepless nights, but only the stars and the quiet.  There were hot years, but I don’t remember when.  Storms, we had a few.  Cold nights, yes, I’m sure.  Their stories are blotted out by the other memories. 

Deep, rich, touched prayer times.  Sharing lives, making impressions -the kind of personal connections that build walls of faith for times of trouble.  These are the people who held me up in prayer and supported me through the dark days.  Their opinions of me matter.  

It seemed to all culminate last night.  I thought I was ready to leave.  It was getting late and the drive loomed.  I wasn’t ready to go, though.  Something – or Someone – held me back a few more minutes.  I had prayed with some very special friends, I had sung until my voice was gone, I had taken notes of some excellent teaching and preaching.  I had chatted with this one and that one confirming our mutual admiration.  I even smiled inside at the appearance of my books – MY BOOKS – at the PPH tent.  How absolutely sublime!

Ready to flit out, I saw one more friend, whose story I don’t really know, with her head bowed still praying. 

I know from having walked through a crisis that oftentimes what’s noised abroad resembles little of real life.  Thanks to Facebook, assumptions are made based on two or three lines of text.  I also know from walking through crisis that those two or three lines of text sometimes contain years of information.  Sensitivity is the key to dividing rumor from reality.

All I needed to know about my friend I knew.  Someone knocked on my heart and reminded me of the similarities.  That one last alter call gave me the door to reassure my friend that someone on the planet understood.  Some tears, some grace, some strength sharing.  

Then I knew I was okay to leave.

Me and Jesus have some talking to do about some other things from Camp this year.  Some words don’t ought to be written, but only prayed.  Some changes need to be made, some promises need to be kept, some hopes are to be seen.

If you have never been to church camp, you probably have read this post and think I have lost my mind.  You might think I’m simple or addled or out of touch.  Like the words that ought be prayed and not written, some things must be lived not explained.  

That’s how a writer sees Camp time.

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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 or stop by the PPH booth at your UPCI camp and request it.

A Friend Named Jesus

 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.