Music Sings the Colors of Life

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

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

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.

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

 

Did you see that?

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

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

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!

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.