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.

Just a Teaser

Below is a little teaser from my second book, A Friend Named Jesus.  Those of you who have read my first book, A Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges, will want to know this is Lisa's side of the story to A Night at the Theater. 

Thought you might enjoy it and... perhaps you'll want to read the rest of the story.   Check in with a response here or e-mail me at imnewkris@yahoo.com and I'll tell you how to get a signed copy.  

Enjoy!

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A NIGHT IN THE AUDIENCE

2011

 A last minute dash through a yellow-turning-red-light forced Lisa to stop at the traffic light.             

“Ah!”  with a frustrated sigh, she looked at the clock again and tried to convince herself she wasn’t going to be late.

As though joining with the drilling raindrops, it seemed everything was set to stall her. A last minute “quick project” held her at work. The stained blouse kept her from leaving the house. An empty gas tank stole minutes from her drive to downtown. And now the light seemed to drag itself from yellow to red to green.

In the park to her right, a stand of trees glowing with autumn light despite the dreary night beckoned her attention. Oblivious, she fumed within.

Of all the performances to be required to see!  She knew Minneapolis offered hundreds of venues for live performance … why this one?  She was sure he would be there, gloating in his accomplishment. She wondered who had designed his set this time. Who had he found to watch site lines and perfect all the minutia of detail to make his show run smoothly?  Would the replacement be better?

The adrenaline of an opening night had held them together long after good sense would have separated them. Neither could deny how well they worked together. But that wasn’t enough.

As her skills became acknowledged in the industry, more than praise, she drew respect, from her peers – their peers. His need to be recognized superior drove him to belittle her, criticize her publicly, and humiliate her. Privately the disdain was magnified. Piece by piece, he tore away her self-respect and identity.

As the light finally turned green, she shook her head and said aloud, “Opening nights are not the only thing you left behind. “

With plenty of time to spare, she arrived at the theater. She dawdled in the gift shop. Smiling to herself, she realized she had never been the customer, always the designer. She considered the handiwork of the PR pieces, and bought a handful of useless trinkets like any other star-struck novice might.

Carefully she timed her entry into the theater, so as not to accidentally coincide with a last minute house check. A handful of patrons sat clustered here and there chatting quietly. She made her way to the front row, checked her ticket, and settled in trying to blend.

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.

A Man and a Handful of Seeds

The writer's contest has come to a very pleasant conclusion.  And now begins the posting of the blogs!

First up - A Man and a Handful of Seeds by Sam Al-Saadi.

Enjoy!

“A Man and a Handful of Seeds”

There was a man who was given a handful of seeds. The man brought the seeds home and placed them on his kitchen table. He began to talk to the seeds and tell them it was time for them to grow. He explained to the seeds the process of growth and encouraged them to do what they were meant to do. As the days went by and the seeds remained on the man’s table, the man became frustrated. Why would the seeds not respond to his good teaching and encouragement? He knew the things he was telling them were right. He could not understand the seeds’ refusal to respond. Are not seeds supposed to grow, the man asked himself? I must have been given bad seeds, he thought to himself. In his frustration he became sterner and explained to the seeds that it is was their duty to grow and he told them that they were not living to their potential. For many weeks and months the man continued to teach, encourage, prod, and pray because he knew in his heart that the seeds were meant to grow.

One day a friend of the man came to the man’s home. As the man and his friend were enjoying a conversation, the man’s friend noticed the handful of seeds on the man’s table and asked the man about the seeds. The man told his friend how he was given the seeds and he told his friend everything he had done to make them grow. The friend smiled at the man and spent the rest of the afternoon explaining many things.
The very next day the man went out and found the most fertile soil that he could find. He did just as his friend had said and he brought home both fertilizer and peat to mix with the soil. He found a spot close to a window and placed large pots, which he filled with the most fertile soil, peat, and fertilizer. The sun was shining in the window, bright and clear, as the man placed the seeds in the pots at just the depth that his friend had told him. He watered the soil well and as the days passed he kept the soil watered with just the right amount of water. Two of the seeds never grew but the others began to grow. The man continued to do exactly as his friend had told him and he made sure to water the pots with just the right amount of water; he made sure to keep the room warm, he made sure to feed the seeds with fertilizer, and he made sure that the sun could shine brightly on the pots. The seeds had become plants and the plants continued to grow as the man did all that his friend had said. The plants did not all grow the same, but they all grew. Most of the seeds became very large plants and made the man very happy. Many of the plants even produced fruit, which not only made the man happy, but also tasted very good. The man shared the fruit with all those who came to visit and he loved to tell the story of the seeds and of his very good friend.

You cannot force a plant to grow, a flower to bloom, a fruit tree to produce its fruit anymore than you can an individual Christian or a church to grow. But doesn’t God require growth? In the book of Luke, Jesus told the parable of the barren fig tree. He also spoke this parable: “A certain man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard, and he came seeking fruit on it and found none. Then he said to the keeper of his vineyard, ‘Look, for three years I have come seeking fruit on this fig tree and find none. Cut it down; why does it use up the ground?’ But he answered and said to him, ‘Sir, let it alone this year also, until I dig around it and fertilize it. And if it bears fruit, well. But if not, after that you can cut it down.’” Luke 13.6-9

There are many examples throughout the Scripture that show God intends that both the individual Christian and the church grow, thrive, and produce abundant fruit. But what if we are not growing, what should we do? I think we all too often look to blame the plant when we don’t see genuine growth. But as the story of “A Man and a Handful of Seeds” illustrates, all it really takes for the seeds to reach their potential is to create the environment that the seeds require. In the right environment, the seeds cannot help but grow; the growth is in the seeds, they were always meant to grow, that is just what they do. So look around at your environment, roll up your sleeves, and get to work. Remember: till and fertilize the ground, provide lots of nutrients, and plenty of sunshine and water.

Pastor, if your church is not growing like it should, don’t look at your members, look at the environment that you’ve put them in. Make it a growth environment and start looking for a bigger building!

He shall be like a tree, planted by the rivers of water, that brings forth its fruit in its season, whose leaf also shall not wither; and whatever he does shall prosper. Psalms 1.3

Written by Sam Al-Saadi 1/14/12

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.