Silence Shouts

Sometimes I find myself sitting down to my laptop to check Facebook or read the news and instead my hands begin to write.  

It's not like I'm possessed of a spirit, don't get the holy water out.  But the words which fill my thoughts and my heart need to be expressed, to be left behind. 

Sometimes I am inclined to share them because I think perhaps someone else in this great big planet needs to know that someone else sees the world through the same struggles and triumphs. 

 After spending the better part of the last three days alone, as I do most week-ends,  these words fell from my hands.  

I hope they bless someone. I hope someone is encouraged by them.  I hope someone sees how near God can be even when we think He is far removed and has left us to be alone.

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Silence Shouts

The silence shouts

His Accusations

His Perceptions of

My reality.

His doubts.

His rejections.

His opinions based on

Nothing.

I disdain the silence

For all of its fullness.

I know where the truth

Lies.

For behind every accusation

Is a measure of guilt.

Behind every perception

Is an ounce of action.

I know how stark is the reality.

Behind every doubt

Is a moment of weakness.

Behind every rejection

Is a time of darkness.

Behind every opinion

Is a judgment weighed honestly.

What the silence doesn’t know

Can’t see

Won’t look for

Is the foundational Truth that

Carries me through.

The truth is the Truth is my foundation

And the darkness and the light are both alike

To the Truth.

Opinions reverse.

Rejections erase.

Reality clears.

Doubts diminish.

Perceptions change.

Accusations are silenced.

In the stillness when

The wind has blown itself out

The earthquake has come to rest

The fire is brought to ash

Then, the Truth speaks clearly.

“Be still and know that I am God.”

“I have carved you in the palm of My Hand.”

“My plans for you are for good and not for evil.”

“I will never leave you nor forsake you.”

And that’s when the silence is silenced.

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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

Writer's Double Life

The hardest part about my double life is I don’t have any time to dwell on the victories of my writing.

I remember when the copy of my first printed book came in the mail at work.  I wanted to shout and dance and grin broadly and call everyone and post it on Facebook and then dance some more.  Maybe even have a cup of celebratory tea and toast to the sunshine streaming in the windows!

But a tape was waiting and my boss was pacing and eyeing my allegiances and so I put the box under my desk and smiled to myself and got back to work. The bills have to be paid and I can’t be without a job.  Tucking myself away, I set it aside.

My second book, like the first, crossed my desk in similar fashion with similar squelched happiness.  

And now, today, I have officially sent a proposal with real terms to be agreed upon by real people who have asked me to get their stories in print for other real people to print and read and share.  I want desperately to talk the terms out with everyone I see.  To pontificate and regurgitate and reassess the pros, the cons, the fears, the accomplishments.  

But no dancing aloud, no celebrations ensue, no reveling here, no discussions, dissertations or detailing allowed!

Dictation and filing and other important tasks demand I retain focus.

Someday, when I grow up, I’m going to be a writer at my own desk in my own space and I hereby proclaim every noteworthy event will be celebrated with tea, crumpets and loud voices!

But not today.  Today, I get back to work.

At lunch time, if you look over my shoulder, you might find me tossing words about the page.  Not so they become memorialized, but simply to empty them from my consciousness so I can concentrate.

Like this:

Let me just put it out there.  If they reject my offer, I am in the same position that I was in August before I knew such a thing could happen.  If they send a counter-proposal, I am in a better place than I was in August.  

What have I got to lose? 

This constant going back and forth in my mind only serves to distract me from the tasks at hand and could ultimately jeopardize my job.  That is the great frustration of working and not only writing.  The words chaotically chorus circling my days refusing to behave while I do what must be done if I will have a roof over my head and a car to drive.

I chase away jealous thoughts of those who wile their days away complaining about a husband gone too much or children who crawl into their personal time.  What do they do with all that free time I imagine they own?  What I wouldn’t give....  But then they likely wish they could trade my perceived freedoms and independence in exchange for their routines.  

Since my mother’s mind knows that no one wins the green-eyed battle, I construct a wall between my perceptions of them and their realities of me and get back to dictation while the words dance behind my eyes.

The worst part of being a writer who happens to be single is that there is no one to celebrate, contemplate and commiserate with me over the process.  I’m quite sure my friends are tired of my endless bragging and complaining, by turns, about the process.  If I were married, or even dating, surely Prince Charming would understand my fluttering mind and give me a place to rest.  I had a friend once whose voice alone I could rest in.  Something about his tone and understanding would instantly calm the fluttering phrases.  I miss that, honestly.   

Another friend rested my mind once by saying she was quite sure I wouldn’t want to write professionally.  Not that she didn’t think I could, but she feared that if I made the thing I love into the thing I must do it would tarnish its authenticity.  As the contract ballasts are built, I understand what she meant.  I only want to write, but if my writing is valuable, then I ought to get paid.  I’m not sure how to reconcile the two.  

Lunch hour has wound down and the timeclock is ticking.  Again I set aside the writer's dream until the day the words can play.  I put the worries with them in the box beneath my desk.  

For today there is only the hum of the air conditioner, the stacks of filing, the mail to prepare, the e-mails to read and the bills to be paid.   

Today I’m a writer with a job.  

 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

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.

Writing and More Writing

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.