Faith Believes Good Lies Beneath the Bad

The tragedy in Colorado yesterday left my heart very sad.  I don't know anyone there.  I have never even been to Colorado.  I didn't expect to know anyone even remotely involved with anyone who might have been in the theater.

But it made me sad.

It brought me back to other phone calls, other tragedies announced, other events that can never be undone.  "It's John."  "Dean was in an accident."  "He's in jail.  One of them had a gun."  "He was just sleeping on the couch and someone drove by and shot into the house."  "The gun went off.  It was an accident." 

Every time a senseless death occurs, two lives are lost.  The one who holds the gun, the one who receives the bullet.  The one who drives drunk, the one who is hit by the drunk driver.  Every time a strong armed crime is adjudged, two futures are altered.  One whose youth is stolen in prison, one who faces fear every time the door clicks open behind them.

Two lives unalterably changed.  Two sets of families and friends grieving.  Two sets of tragedy.

I hate guns.  I hate alcohol. You can't change my mind.  I know those things are part of American life.  They aren't a part of my every day, but their stamps remain long behind.

The shooting in Colorado reminded me also of other tragedies:  Columbine, Oklahoma City, Ground Zero.  I wasn't connected to any of those events, either, but they made me want to hug my kids and find a way to protect them from the random violence of the world.  Now I add Aurora to the list.

I would like to wrap them up - all the kids of mine - and never let them out of the house just to be sure nothing bad ever happens to them.  I want to find a way to eradicate the violence so they never understand the sadness of traumatic loss.  I want to cover their eyes and ears and build a wall around them.

I'm not the one in charge of the world, however.  What if they are the one to find the answer?  What if God has given them a difficult path to face leaving behind a wake of compassion, grace, strength, hope?  I'm not saying God is the author of tragedy.  But I know from my own life that if we give God an opportunity, He will teach us something through the worst days.  Some good lays beneath the sadness if we allow Him to show us.

I have a list of survivors I could give you. Some became bitter, angry, victims of the events trying to self-medicate the pain away.  Some became activists spurred to draw attention, change laws, bring the elephant in the room out of hiding.  Some became gentle, compassionate, listeners who change the future one hug at a time.

I hope the senseless tragedies which left footprints and holes in my heart have made me the compassionate type.  I hope I never forget how it felt to hear the phone calls so I have grace to give when the phone rings for someone else.

You can think I'm simple or foolish.  That's ok.  Black days have taught me to have faith.

I have faith in God who tells me regardless of the awful, tragic, horrific events of life, some good can be found beneath it all.  He is the Author and Finisher of my faith and teaches me all things work together for good for those who love Him and those who are called according to His purpose.

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.

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.