The Written Stuff

So what about the foundation of a person’s life and how it serves to guide his or her identity?

In a recent writing assignment, a student of mine observed that when a political leader tries to lead people without possessing certain fundamental moral qualities such as honesty and others-centered responsibility, that leader’s life is a little bit like a shirt with buttons in mismatched button holes, all the way from the bottom of the shirt to the top.  

It was an apt thought as I further pondered this topic of identity and the foundation/applied side of it. Thinking about not only political leaders – but all types of people in general – a life without a solid moral compass is a little like a house with a slanted foundation or a dress shirt with an askew buttoning job. 

The main difference, perhaps, is that many political leaders and other celebrities live lives that are far more often on wide public display. The rest of us generally display our flaws and weaknesses to a considerably smaller crowd.

Having a solid foundation gives us a level place on which to build all of the other applications of our identity: the choices we will make; the things we will decide to invest money, time, and energy into; the direction we will veer at each fork in life’s road. But if our shirt gets buttoned in the wrong hole from the very beginning, we are far more likely to get off on the wrong foot or set off in the wrong direction – and stay there for most of our subsequent days.

And yet…analogies are rarely perfect…

In this case, though some things can’t be undone, learning how to lay a new foundation and rebutton the shirt correctly some years down the road gives us a chance to start fresh. In other words, by some miraculous grace and much discipline, the mind can be transformed. Renewed.

…Thank God for that.

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How would you answer that question? Would you simply rattle off your name, date of birth, address, etc. to the person who needed to know?

Or would you automatically list your identity in terms of relationships (“I’m a spouse, sibling, child, parent, grandparent, friend, etc.”) Or perhaps turn to your career field or current job for an easy answer?

If you were to, instead, answer according to, say, some aspect of your personality or a skill, talent, or hobby that’s prominent in your life, would that provide a clearer picture of you as a person?

When someone “steals” our identity, what does that mean? Supposedly they “become” us, at least in terms of having access to our money and credit, buying things in our name and making off with what we have worked hard to earn. 

But are any of these things, in the truest sense, a real picture of our identity? 

I firmly believe that our identity goes far beyond what can be listed on a small plastic card or even in a social media profile. Instead, in the deepest sense, it is the very origin of our soul mixed with the elements of our material heart, mind, and body while we walk the earth AND it is, springing from that origin, the foundation upon which the rest of our life (our actions, decisions, and sense of personal direction) is built. 

While reflecting quietly on the depths of my own identity this weekend, I wrote a poem that demonstrates what the first part of the above statement means in my life at its most important level. Please allow me to share it with you here. 

Identity 101

I come from a God

Who has never produced a single flaw,

Who knits supremely with needles finer than fishbones,

Who will always see me as His priceless handiwork.

I turn from a God

Who was weeping at my absence long before I left,

Who wants only my best – while I chase slippery perfection,

Who will always do His utmost to show me His door stands wide open.

I pray to a God

Who created time for our finite minds alone,

Who holds its limited, counted sand grains in His capable hands,

Who will always hear my cry – no matter its volume.

I cling to a God

Who swaddled me in arms supremely meek,

Who offers me unlimited time in the spot at His side,

Who will always grant a feast for the soul in the touch of His hand.

I learn from a God

Who was planning my courses with precision long before I breathed,

Who scaffolds the lessons in all my days – reviewing as necessary,

Who will always give the wisdom I need to complete each application.

I love from a God

Who has modeled the only way to care completely,

Who restores a broken world through clay vessels like me,

Who will always know what we were is what we are and what we will be.


Next week, I’ll reflect a bit further on the second part, about the foundation.

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This Labor Day, I pause to reflect for a few moments. And if I’m honest, I will confess that I struggle to maintain a balance between two extremes: working my heart to the bone to try please those I work for or with versus not really caring about work and wanting to somehow escape its responsibilities.

The first extreme springs from a fear that the work I’ve done and all the work I’ve yet to do will somehow never really be good enough. The second has roots in the over-exhaustion that comes when I find myself trying to recover from the backlash of the first.

And somehow, I have a feeling I’m not the only one out there who has found him/herself in this boat, caught in this cycle.

So my mind floats to those old, wise words telling me not to worry, not to fear. “Look at the birds and the flowers – they don’t worry and all is provided for them…” And yet, I see members of the natural world also doing their “work” and receiving the gifts provided for them, gathering and storing for the winter ahead. Noticing one of my bushy-tailed little neighbors yesterday inspired me to write this poem:

Instincts sharp

and shiny

eyes vigilant

enough to

steer clear

of my

careening tires–

even though

that mouthful

surely outweighs

your head.

Bounding gracefully

over blades,

launching expertly

onto bark…

I instinctively

want to

hear if

you fear

the knowns–

and unknowns–

of winter?

Then I ask myself – what’s the difference between worry and fear? And how are humans different than animals with our given ability to make choices — choices that include one to trust the Creator when fear or worry (or both) would threaten to drain the joy from work that we should be reaping along with a salary (as Solomon suggested in Ecclesiastes 3:12-13)?

My head tells me that the contented and peaceful trusting-middle is the place where I should dwell, and my heart cries with the need to comply. But every day, as I face the winter of the world, I, the human, must make a very real choice: to be a little bit more like the lily, the sparrow, the squirrel.

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While reflecting a lot recently on the life of an ancient prophet named Elijah, I found I could identify with him closely – a nearly-impossible success finally achieved…but coming down off the “high” to find an exhausted body and soul in a desert (of sorts). 

After reading Psalm 9:9-10 and chewing more on the aforementioned thoughts, I crafted the following short poem. If you or someone you care about is going through a trying or dry time right now, I hope the words might bring some comfort to your heart, and that you might find (or rediscover) the water that will truly fill you up again.

See how a river, mighty once, now runs: a fragile stream instead,

Enough to feed a single tree — to shade my drooping, sun-brunt head,

Inviting, careless: death, sleep, end — this sandy shelf becomes a bed.

Now comes a hand to pierce my dreams, a voice to rouse my weary soul,

Coals near my face releasing smoke, burned for the bread to make me whole, 

And water sweet to quench this thirst, to make both gut and spirit full.

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What do I believe I deserve?

In the grand scheme of things, most people seem naturally disposed to assume that “good” people deserve good things and “bad” people deserve bad things – or at least they deserve less than their “good” counterparts.

A Jesus-centered view of the world sees things in a different light. In the light of His holiness, every single person has done things to distance him/herself from God, and therefore, on our own, we can never truly be good again – we are all correctly labeled as bad, marred, or undeserving. And the only thing we have really earned or deserved is punishment for the laws of God and man we have broken. Ironically, it is also in the light of His holiness, and His blood, that we can be made good again in the eyes of God, and filled with the desire to do good. And so, we acutely feel our struggle against the old wrong while we continue to reach for what is better.

Yet, even such redeemed hearts can sometimes struggle to know what to do with the undeserved. Every day – a hundred blessings are poured out on us. Some seem tiny and others are huge. If we have eyes and hearts to see them, it can still be hard to accept them. We sink back to thinking of what it was to depend solely on self, and we steep our minds in worries over our unworthiness.

But the Bible shows in more than one place that blessings and opportunities are poured on each person, no matter whether we would judge them “worthy” or not. For example, Ecclesiastes 9:11 (NIV) says, “I have seen something else under the sun: The race is not to the swift or the battle to the strong, nor does food come to the wise or wealth to the brilliant or favor to the learned; but time and chance happen to them all.”

In The Voice of Melody, there is a point when Owen is acutely reminded of what a treasure he’s been given in his wife, Peggy. And in his words to her, we see the bottom line of our choice for how we will respond to all the blessings we don’t feel we deserve…

We can either deface God’s gifts to us, refusing them or snatching them from His hand with grumbling in our souls.

Or we can open our hearts to let them be poured in by the Blessing Giver, and echo back goodness with words of humble gratitude.

 

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Image result for woman and baby silhouette

In honor of caring women everywhere: a Mother’s Day, every-day poem…

 

Many a womb has brought about

a life both wanted and received —

a life begotten out of love

and raised in blessed cherishing

Many a womb has borne to full

a child whole in limb and form —

a child ignored, rejected, crushed

by worth dismissed, appearance scorned

Many a womb has ached to house

a child’s live and beating heart —

a child who comes but cannot stay

so that the womb cries: hollow, hurt

Many a womb has never grown

any sort of seed at all —

no seed to enter sacred space

within the garden’s secret wall

But many arms have held and rocked

and many hands have nursed fresh wounds

and many eyes have unearthed beauty

and many voices have hummed and soothed

And so, today, no matter what

the state of her womb may have been

I say to each heart that has mothered,

“Thank you for the love you’ve shown.”

 

~Kaylene Powell (May 13, 2018)

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I had an opportunity to sell books at the Old Market Farmer’s Market in Omaha a couple of days ago. It was delightful to meet folks from all walks and stages of life, to sell copies of The Voice of Melody to a number of readers, and to introduce the story to many more.

But being there early to set up meant peeling myself out of bed at 5:30 a.m. As I threw back the covers, I prayed, “God, give me energy to go and meet people today – and bring the people by that You want me to talk to, the people who need to hear this story.”

One of my later sales of the day was to a customer in a bright yellow blouse (my FAVORITE color!). She walked up to the booth and was obviously, instantly captivated by the book’s cover.

After I gave her a brief synopsis, she decided to get one. And I said, “I’d be happy to sign your copy. What’s your first name?”

She smiled and said, “Melody.”

I laughed.

And later, I remembered my early morning prayer. There is something about the men, women, and children of this novel, both the historical characters and the completely fictional ones, that creeps into the inviting heart and makes us think about our own experiences in a meaningful way.

Yes, most volumes written are not suitable for every reader in the world. But I firmly believe that certain readers are meant to read certain books at certain times.

I’m so glad Melody walked by my booth. And I hope she’ll enjoy her journey back in time.

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I spent the majority of the past two days at the Wordsowers Writers Conference in Omaha. The annual gathering draws in writers, editors, agents, and marketers from the local area and even across the country. This year, we had the privilege of hearing from the award-winning author Ronie Kendig. We were also joined once again by such writing experts as Tosca Lee and Alex Marestaing.

A famous proverb from the Bible says, “As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another.” I learned enough during this conference to keep my head spinning for a little while. I was humbled to realize mistakes I’d been making all this time and how I needed to learn from and avoid them in the future. I was also struck by the need to sift through the information overload and consider what practical steps I can take to improve my writing right now (instead of trying to do EVERYTHING all AT ONCE!).

In the midst of it all, I seized multiple opportunities to speak an encouraging word. Several of my co-attendees needed a listening ear and a gentle reminder that they were on the right track, that they should not give up. Others simply needed to hear a word of confirmation about how their heart and soul indeed blesses the world. I was overjoyed when I could share that listening heart and such uplifting words – and watch my response visibly bless the other(s) involved in the conversation.

Many hearts in our world today need both comforting and sharpening. Over the course of this weekend, I was acutely reminded of it. And challenged. Will you join me in considering how you can comfort and sharpen others in your sphere of influence?

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The final post in a four-part series before the release of Kaylene’s first novel on April 17…

 

I’ve never given birth to a child. But I have felt the pangs of labor. 

A book and a baby are alike in some ways. Both are often conceived in love. Both require a long period of incubation and growth in the deepest places of the carrier. And both come forth at last through the most grueling ending – the final hours of blood, sweat, and tears.

Then what are both mother and author left with? A small but magnificent creation. A beautiful gift. And a bundle of potential they want to share with the world.

But this is scary.

For the world will look at the baby and judge it. Some will say it’s cute – and mean it. Some will say it’s nice while privately thinking otherwise. And some will tell the parents (or the child as he/she grows) that their little treasure is no treasure at all.

And the world will look at the book and judge it. Some will say it’s good – and mean it. Some will say it’s okay but quietly complain about elements they don’t like and rate it halfheartedly. And some will tell the author (or everyone else of their acquaintance) that the written creation is a piece of garbage.

I thought the hardest part of writing a novel would be starting. Then I thought the hardest part would be getting over the hump in the middle of the draft. Then finishing the draft. Then getting stuck time and again in the revising process. Then surviving the red pen of the professional editors. Then moving past the rejection of publishers and agents and more publishers. Then working feverishly through the last, crazy edits of the galley…

I was wrong.

I think the hardest part is now. Hours away from the moment my baby will be released to a judging world. Anticipating this moment with great joy because I want to share the story. Yet holding my breath because I can’t control what other people will say about it.

Like a good mother, I know the truth about my baby and will love it, no matter what the world may say. So if there’s anything to be learned from critiques and criticisms, bring ’em on. But in the end, I have told the story I was given to tell. And there is a joy in that no amount of judgement can touch.

 

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 Part Three in a four-part series leading up to the April 17th launch of Kaylene’s first novel!

 I have written before about how much readers as a whole and also as individuals shape a story in the mind of a writer. But today, it’s time for a greatly deserved shout out to another group of people: those who support the writer while he/she goes through the arduous process of carrying the story and delivering it in its final form. This includes (but is not limited to):

++ “Family”

++ Friends

++ Teachers, co-workers, and employers

++ Beta readers and critique providers

++  Helpers in the publishing process

My friends Leo and Fanny (pictured) are just two of the many wonderful people who have supported me during a journey lasting more than two years – from the time I began research work until this month’s publication of The Voice of Melody. I still remember sitting on their sofa (while their sweet dog, Victor Hugo, cuddled at my side for a good behind-the-ears scratching) and telling them about this topic I’d started exploring and the dream I had of writing about it. Their eyes shone with interest, and their words encouraged me to dive into drafting shortly after that visit.

Many friends, family members, and colleagues have helped me to press on when I felt exhausted, discouraged, and rejected. Yet, these were not just a bunch of “yes men” – they were people who were still willing to tell me when I’d made a mistake or when I needed to stop and rest – or when what I was writing or doing was flat-out wrong. And in those ways, they supported me too.

It was a great challenge, upon completing the manuscript, to pen my acknowledgements section. How does one thank a multitude of individuals in just a few pages? The truth is, when a writer has been blessed with as many supportive folks as I have, it can’t be done. I could only name some of the many who have helped to carry me emotionally, mentally, professionally, and spiritually along the way. But though space was limited, I hope every person who’s run by my side for at least a few steps of the long race will sense today how grateful I am for them.

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