Mission Impossible: Motherhood

These are the four people who I spend the most time with. I never thought I could love anyone with the intensity and passion that I love these four people. I never understood how love can be an ache until I loved these four. I know all about them. I carefully consider every aspect of their personality, I obsess over how I can help them achieve their goals and dreams. I hurt when they hurt and I rejoice when they rejoice.

But these four people aren't perfect. They fight. They are LOUD. They disobey, they don't try hard enough, they get distracted from what they should be doing, and they pout and stomp around. Some days, like today, loving them is hard. It's a chore. 

I don't think I understood what motherhood would really be like. I always wanted to be a mom. It was even more important to me than my writing or music. I pleaded with God to give me these two girls and two boys. And he answered my prayer. He answered my prayer! I don't know how I could ever say thank you adequately to express how grateful I am to be their mom.

But I've come to that point in my life where the dream isn't all it was cracked up to be. My emotions and level of calm are being twisted in different directions by hormones and approaching 40 and trying to keep up and do everything well. That's the hardest part. Doing everything I'm supposed to do WELL. 

I wake up in the morning feeling overwhelmed by the tasks ahead. I go to bed at night with a desperate prayer that somehow, God will help me be kind to these people I love more than anything. 

I pray he will help me be patient. I pray that I will figure out what it means to accomplish my tasks from day-to-day in his strength. Because I've tried it in mine, and I only end up frazzled, guilty, stressed and exhausted.

I'm not alone. Watching the movie "Mom's Day Out" recently with my mom made me see I'm not alone in my misery. Seeing the main character huddle in her closet with the computer, "hiding from the house" rang completely true. I've had enough homework, practices, laundry, paint, stickiness, glue, muddy shoes, screaming, screeching, fighting, and food spills, not to mention vomit, poop, and pee to last me the rest of my days.

But even in all of the struggle, in all my weariness, I'm still glad God put these four people in my life. I don't know what I'd do without them. I can't even think about losing one of them. They are my world, and I pray God will show me how to raise them to love him. 

Even if I never figure out how to make them talk softly. Even if they are still bickering about who's turn it is when they are 25. Even if they squirm and climb under the pews at church, or spill their milk for the second time in a day, even if they stumble into my room at 3 am and inform me of their needs in a whine that makes me want to tear my hair out. As long as they learn to love Jesus, as long as they learn to love others, I guess that's what counts.

Dear Mom, hang in there. Focus on what is important today. Spend a few moments thinking about how much you love those little people around you making you crazy this afternoon. God gave them to you because he knew you alone could love them the way they need to be loved. Take heart, and keep up the good work.

4 Obstacles to Indie Publishing

Speaking as a brand-new Indie author, this painting by Edward Munch is a great description of how I feel when I researching the process.

But the more I know, the more excited I get. The more I knew about traditional publishing over the years, the more frustrated and anxious I got. I spent years trying to get the attention of agents. A few sent criticism, sometimes harsh. A few sent form letters. Most never responded at all. 

When I finally began a relationship with a reputable agent, I was excited. She liked the story, just wanted a few minor changes. I did them, in record time, and waited months for her to respond. She requested a manuscript. She wanted the 90,000 word book printed out and sent to her. I did it quickly and waited months. She wrote a note on one of the pages that she liked it but it needed more changes and a professional edit. I did the changes, had the manuscript edited and printed out the whole thing again. And I was truly happy for her help. Her advice did make the story stronger. But after a year had passed since the original query, she sent another barely legible note on the back of a page that she now wanted me to take out everything but the romance. All my character development, the mystery and the adventure, the PLOT, basically, had to go. As it was, it wouldn't make enough money.

I was floored. Apparently, that's what it takes to sell a book traditionally. I don't necessarily blame the agent for requiring it, but the more I thought about it and discussed it with my editor, the more sure I was that I couldn't be that kind of author. The kind of story she wanted my book to be is the kind of book I think should be banned from the shelves. There are too many of them. They don't challenge the reader, they don't have depth or art. And from the women I've talked to, everyone is kind of tired of them. 

So Indie it is. But I quickly noticed in my new quest that there are some serious obstacles to Indie Publishing as well. 

1. It's hard to find.

I've been trying to find Indie authors who write the same types of genres as I do. (Christian Historical Romance.) So far I haven't found any viable options for me to read and support. There are quite a few smutty romances and not a little science fiction, but Christian Indie authors seem to be lagging behind. 

2. Everything is lumped together.

To me, Indie publishing feels like a huge room filled nearly to the top with books. All of them are screaming to be read. It's loud, it's unorganized, and when you step in the room you're a little afraid of drowning in them. You pick a few up, but quickly realize that there is no difference between the author who has carefully rewritten and edited their work, seeking the advice and editing of others and taking the time to actually learn how to write, and the folks who just have too much time on their hands and spent more time designing the cover than fixing their spelling and plot holes. And let's face it, most of the books are not the edited kind. 

There are a few things to provide a solution, such as Kirkus reviews, but for the Indie author who has to buy photo editing software, professional editing and other programs to turn a word document into a book, it gets pricey. Hopefully as time goes on, there will be more accountability and ways to determine whether an Indie read is worth the time or not.

3. The need to spend time building followers on social media versus the need to have time to spend writing.

Writers write. I've written my entire life, it's just a part of me and the same as thinking to my brain. Now that I've trained to write in a manner that will be useful to others, I can't just sit back on my laurels. I have to labor over the words over and over until they are just right, and that takes months and years. The social media circus is an absolutely necessary but daunting frustration to the time I wish I could spend working. And it's not just Indie authors who have this problem. Traditionally published authors are also expected to form an outrageous following before they even have a single book available.

I believe this is a big part of why we have the formulaic, cookie cutter stories that turned me away from traditional publishing. No one is allowed to be different, to express their own voice and to write for a more modest niche of people who will enjoy exactly the books they write. The only ones free to do this are the fortunate few who have had the success stories most authors will only ever dream of. And I just don't think it's right to limit art to such a narrow (boring) avenue.

4. Art as a business.

The truth of it for me, is that I don't care if I ever make money writing. I would like to cover my costs, but what is absolutely essential to me is finding readers who will get something out of my work. Unfortunately, in reality, the two are linked in our culture and it's difficult to see an alternative.

What do you think? Have you read any Indie authors you would recommend? Are you a Christian Indie author who is interested in working together? Anyone have any tips about social media? Please speak up and share your thoughts, we're here to learn from each other.

And please follow me! If you are interested in reading more posts like the recent ones, I plan to document my journey to Indie publishing over the next year before my novel Where We Belong is released in September of 2015. I'd appreciate your follows and shares. Thanks!

Attention Dreamers: Five Habits of Creative Writers

Let’s face it, creative people have their challenges. Organization, motivation, inspiration – we tend to sit and think until that miraculous thought occurs that changes everything.

But in our world, the reality is, people who sit and wait for genius to strike will quickly fall behind all the neat, organized and self-motivated people in the world. As a result, writing how-to blog posts such as this one tend to be written by the not-as-creative-as-they-are-on-the-ball types.

I’m not saying it’s wrong for people who aren’t primarily creative to write and to help others learn to write. I’ve utilized plenty of their wisdom over the years I’ve been learning to hone my craft. But it seems like creative types have a special method they must employ if they are to be successful in this highly driven, fast-paced society. The dreamers and idealists can easily be left in the dust if they aren’t careful.

So as a creative person, I’d like to suggest the top five habits I have learned to deal with my dreamer nature.

1. Make schedule a habit.

I know we dreamers don’t like schedules and routine much. I’d rather do what feels right at the moment. But I didn’t start growing as an author until I made it a habit to go into my office every day after lunch and close the door and work on writing or writing-related activities for the afternoon hours. Sure, I still stare out the window regularly. I get side-tracked by the busy life of my family going on around me, and some days motivation and spirit are low and I don’t get much done. But that’s okay.The important part is that your brain understands to go there every day, so that it is more a mechanical function than a decision.

2. Don’t try to write without a good amount of day-dreaming first.

You can try it, but I find those attempts never turn out very well. Some writers can outline and plan out their plot and have every scene mapped before they begin a story, and if you can do that, great, but it doesn’t work with my brain that longs to run barefoot through the meadow of the world I am endeavoring to create. Dream up your characters. Ask them who they are. Find out their personalities and their quirks, and most importantly, find out what they are afraid of; what they want more than anything. That’s where you find your story.

3. Don’t let the publishing business intimidate you.

This has been the hardest lesson for me. I’m a timid person when it comes to interacting with others. I’d rather stay in my day-dream world where I am in control and I don’t have to respond to the behavior of other people. In the publishing business, you find out fast that there are rude people, there are jealous people, there are controlling people. The attitude in mainstream publishing is that authors are the lowly peasants and editors and agents are the royalty who elevate whom they wish and ignore and oppress the rest. I’m not speaking specifically of certain ones, and if I was they wouldn’t recognize it and probably wouldn’t be reading this in the first place. But if you want to write and actually have someone hear you, whether you attempt mainstream or indie publishing, eventually you have to speak up and make someone listen to you. So you get your craft as perfect as you can (professional editors are a great tool if you can swing it) and then you confidently walk out on the stage without being called and tell everyone your story is available for reading. It also helps to find your target audience (the ones you know will like your book.)

Another note: It is fine to accept the help and advice of willing agents and editors who do take the time to respond to your work and tell you what they think is wrong with it. But take everything they say through a filter. They are not creative writers, most of the time, but they have their own idea of what a story should be, and their idea is usually based on monetary expectations. Which brings me to my next point.

4. Don’t write for the money.

We are peasants. The vast majority of authors will remain peasants for a lifetime. If you are writing to make money, GIVE UP NOW. Write because you have something to say. Write because the images in your mind have changed you and you think they might change others, too. Write because if you don’t, the pressure of the beauty that your brain harbors will build up and cause a messy explosion. But don’t write for the money.

This is where your relationship with agents and editors will be strained by its very nature. They ARE in it for money. And that’s why they spend their time and energy on their few moneymakers and have little left for anyone else. And that’s why the publishing business is in trouble, because true readers and writers don’t want the formula. All the Christian women I can find to ask are sick and tired of the same plots and characters, over and over, churned out from the writing factory. But to suggest to an agent that you don’t want to remove your character development, that you’d rather not take out the mystery and adventure and angst and everything that made your story a unique expression of your soul – well, let me tell you from experience, that doesn’t go well.

5. Be willing to sell your own work.

I’ve been trying to break into mainstream publishing for years. I’ve sent hundreds of queries, a few partial manuscripts, and a few whole ones. I’ve received some feedback, and the funny thing about it is, they don’t even agree with each other. After you get past the typos and the grammar and have your book set up in an orderly fashion that is easy to read and interesting, it gets very objective, and no two people prefer the same thing. So take anything that is not hard evidence that you have not done your work as well as you could with a grain of salt. It’s an opinion, and art doesn’t have set perimeters. It’s usually the art that can’t be categorized that has the most heart. So be free with your heart. Be clear, follow rules for grammar, spelling, and formatting. Rewrite as if your life depends on it. Make sure that art is at its best before you take it out in public, but at that point, don’t be ashamed of it. It’s you.

Now get to work!

But before you do -would you take a moment and follow my blog? I will be posting on Thursdays. I plan to have more posts like this one, helping other writers find the confidence and skills they need to become the writer they were created to be. I would love for it to be an interactive place we can discuss many writing related subjects. I’d love to get to know OTHER INDIE AUTHORS AND READERS of women’s Christian fiction. It would make my day if you left a comment. What are you thinking about as you read this post? Are you tired of the majority of mainstream published offerings? What’s missing in our Christian fiction these days? 

The Forgotten Masterpiece

I didn't know much about Vincent Van Gogh until I watched this episode of Doctor Who, entitled "Vincent and the Doctor." The information that had found a way into my memory stores was simply that he was a painter, he was crazy, and he cut off his ear.

New evidence suggests that Vincent was not the one who cut off his ear, by the way. But the way the actual story might go does not shed any more noble light on the man, so I digress.

Why go on about Vincent Van Gogh on a Wednesday afternoon when I should be committed to the task of rewriting a young adult time travel story that a small part of my psyche wants to believe will be the next Harry Potter or Hunger Games? Because I get this guy. 

I realize that I am comparing myself with a great artist and that sounds a little self-aggrandizing. I am not saying I'm the artist he was. But Vincent, in his own time and place, was little more than a joke. No one took him seriously. A quote of Vincent's sheds light on his inward reaction to the abuse:

"What I am in the eyes of most people - a nonentity, an eccentric, or an unpleasant person - somebody who has no position in society and will never have; in short, the lowest of the low. All right, then - even if that were absolutely true, then I should one day like to show by my work what such an eccentric, such a nobody, has in his heart. 

"That is my ambition, based less on resentment than on love in spite of everything, based more on a feeling of serenity than on passion. Though I am often in the depths of misery, there is still calmness, pure harmony and music inside me. I see paintings or drawings in the poorest cottages, in the dirtiest corners. And my mind is driven towards these things with an irresistible momentum."

Human nature hasn't changed a whole lot since Vincent's time. Artists are treated as poorly today as Vincent was. It's easy to feel invisible, ashamed. Sometimes I feel like there is no one else in this world like me. No one that shares my interests, my passions. No one else that sees stories in the poorest dwellings and the dirtiest corners. No one else that has a mind driven toward those things with irresistible momentum. I struggle with guilt over giving up so much of my life to something that so far has been largely a solitary experience. It's easy to think it doesn't matter and I shouldn't annoy people with it.

I know it isn't true. The world hosts as many great thinkers, painters, writers and musicians as it ever did. Sometimes they are fortunate enough to be noticed on a greater scale in their lifetime, sometimes they walk silently through life and to their grave without a soul ever taking notice of the beauty that they left as a treasure map for the next generation.

I realize my last post was somewhat whiny and a bit of a rant. I don't feel that agents and book publishers are necessarily the enemy of my soul, as I may have made it sound. That post was frustration based on a year-long experience with one example of that breed that did not go well, leaving me back at the beginning and feeling like no one wants what I have to offer.

I suppose that's my point. I have to be willing to fling my soul on the canvas and reach down deep within me and find some version of the infinitely greater masterpiece God has revealed to me in secret places and quiet moments. I have to give my all, devote my energy and days to the creation of what he put within me, not because it will impress people, it will make money, or it will validate my passion to a scoffing, disinterested world.

Because it gives him glory. Because whatever I come up with will be placed in eternity's art museum as my best offering to my Savior.

That's enough.

NO SOUP FOR YOU!

I had my piano tuned.

How is this news? you may ask. It's not, really. But it's something new. I haven't had my piano tuned ... ever. I tried a couple times and had a hard time finding a tuner that would call me back. One asked me to come pick him up. I was scared away by the intimidating process of locating a piano tuner, and long story short - I haven't touched the piano in years because its sound made me sad.

Now it sounds lovely. I've played two hours in two days. And all this musical interluding has caused me to think back to different times. Times when I had voice lessons. Choir at school. Piano lessons. Piano practice. More piano practice.

I have always loved music, but more than that, I was born with an ear for it. I never had to try to hear music. To recognize harmony, to sing with others, to hear the pitch, to give my voice vibrato and tone - it all came naturally. I spent most of my piano practice time composing my own music and ignoring my scales. And so, I concluded that this ability was my calling.

Never mind that I almost failed Harmony 1 in college. Never mind that I could never quite get the power when I sang my opera song in french for my final exam in vocal studies. Never mind that all the while, between practices and lessons and classes in which my music professor urged me to apply myself - all the while, in every spare moment I was writing.

I started writing when I learned how to do it. I was five. I was immediately fascinated by words and stories and writing. As the years went on and I learned more about language and writing, I started writing stories. I would borrow characters I loved from books or tv or movies (because I didn't have enough time to develop them in the intricate manner I required) and I would write their stories. When I was supposed to be working. When I was supposed to be doing homework. When I was supposed to be hanging out with friends.

I wrote.

The thing is, writing was so entangled with my being that I never noticed I was doing it. I never drew attention to it. I never showed anyone beyond family the things I wrote. I just did it, like breathing, like eating, like sleeping. I had to do it or go crazy as the ideas and lines of prose built up within me and threatened to explode in a hail of literary bullets aimed at anyone near me.

When I was 26, married and the mother of a beautiful little baby girl, God tapped me on the shoulder. I don't remember why or when or how, but all of the sudden it was like my eyes were open for the first time and I could see what I had been doing for over twenty years. I could see that writing was thinking for me. And suddenly ideas and characters and plot lines started swirling in my brain. It was like a storm of electricity unleashed in my mind in the form of colors and senses and light. And I saw the things I had been writing for all those years, journals and short stories and vignettes and fanfiction and prayers, and I realized I had been created to write. It was my gift. And gifts are meant to help others. To strengthen and comfort other people.

I had been keeping my gift all to myself.

So over the next ten years, I started learning. Though it was hard for my brain to accept there were rules, I made myself start writing according to the advice and expertise of others who had been successful at using their gift to reach an audience. I learned about publishing. I read books about characters and plot development and habits of lifestyle and detailed lists of grammar and punctuation rules. I wrote eight novels.

I didn't think it would take over ten years. I thought it would be quick, because I thought God wanted to use my writing. I still do. I still feel guilty if a day goes by and I haven't written anything (though those days are rare anymore.) I still feel driven and almost panicked when I think about how impossibly impossible it is to be published these days. And to be honest, today I'm feeling pretty lousy about this whole thing. I wanted to accomplish more. I wanted to be used. I wanted to be that empty vessel filled up and useful to God.

The thing is, I'm starting to see how sickly the publishing business is. It's no longer a place for artists to come and get their creations out to the people who could benefit from them. I'm sad to say it's mostly crabby, busy agents and editors that want to dictate the terms of the art according to sales records and have already decided the writers they have to deal with are going to fail, and cynical writers (I'm talking about the true writers - the ones that get up every day and write for hours) that on their most successful day make next to nothing, that distrust everyone they have to come in contact with, feel ashamed to call themselves an author, and feel like the people standing anxiously in line for the Soup Nazi from the Seinfield episode, expecting at any moment of the day to hear yet another "NO SOUP FOR YOU."

It's a great atmosphere for inspiration and works of genius, let me tell you.

So what's the answer? Are all agents and editors bad? When I see them online and read their bios, I think they are very interesting, nice people with families and hobbies and dogs. They all seem to love books and the authors and projects they represent. But somewhere in the process, maybe in the power and control they feel holding other people's entire worlds in their hands and having the power to accept or reject them, some of them just lose the ability to be professional, to be logical, to be discerning enough to appreciate the craft above the drudgery of what the masses will buy. I'm not saying this because they've rejected me countless times. I'm saying this because what is being sold in the bookstores is not the best writing there is. You have to do a lot of sifting to find the good stuff. Much of it seems to be the same tired plot and characters, regurgitated over and over in a rigid formula, because, well, it worked the last time. People paid money for it.

The willingness of people to pay money for something does not make it art. Vincent Van Gogh could tell you that, just for starters.

I'm starting to think of Indie publishing.

I have writer friends who self publish or are in the process of doing so. My dad self published. He didn't make much, but what author does? At least now, after his death, his words are available to anyone in the world instead of lost on his computer or in a pile of manuscripts and rejection letters in the closet.

I know nothing of Indie publishing. I know to avoid vanity publishers, but I'm starting to wonder if there is a good alternative that does not feed the soup nazi line that seriously needs to change or go away.

All this to say, I guess I might be headed in a new direction. It's scary, it's confusing, it's not what I thought I wanted, but maybe God took me the hard way around to let me know what He has in mind for me.

Stay tuned. And anyone who finds this post who knows about Indie publishing and the basics of what authors need to know before they start, let's get a discussion going. Leave your comments!

The Day My Son Came Home

Near Jerusalem, over 2,000 years ago

Nothing breaks a mother’s heart like a sick child. Holding your most precious treasure in the world and watching them suffer changes you. It breaks you, leaving you fragile and vulnerable to the harsh reality of life.

I was broken when my little Eli died. My heart shattered, and I could barely keep going for the rest of my family. He was my youngest, and he was funny and cheerful no matter what life brought to our village, Bethany, or to our home. Though he was young, his faith in Yahweh rivaled the rabbi’s in our synagogue. He was my ray of sunshine, and I forgot to wear the protection of indifference as he grew. I set my heart on always having him with me.

The funeral day dawned grey and depressing, describing the state of my soul in a way that almost felt like a comfort, if it were not for the pain and hopelessness that overwhelmed every sense. We followed behind the coffin, carried by Eli’s older brothers, stopping only when another procession coming out of the city interrupted our solemn pilgrimage to the family burial cave. I lifted disinterested eyes, raw and cloudy from the pressure of my tears, to see that Roman soldiers were leading men out to crucify them. It only served to worsen my mood. If life was not stolen away by disease or accidents in this unforgiving life, it was taken by other men, cruelly and without mercy.

I did not want to live in this world anymore. I wanted to go with little Eli, to fly away to the paradise God had promised his children, that young Eli had believed in with all that he was.

After the rabbi spoke over the coffin, family members and neighbors dispersed with quiet expressions of their sympathy. I stayed behind, unwilling to allow the men to take the coffin into the cave and roll the heavy stone in place. It was so final, my testimony that he was gone forever, and nothing would ever bring him back to me. Even my other children and my husband left in search of food while I waited by his coffin.

Waited for what? I did not know the answer, but my heart would not let go, so I sat among the quiet grove of olive trees, hardly even looking up later in the afternoon when the wind picked up and a storm blew past. It became as dark as night, and still I only allowed the distraction to be an expression of my sadness. I did not wonder why.

As I sat, morose and spent of my crying, there was an unexpected sound.

It was a knocking. A fist against wood. As I searched the premises, I quickly saw that the only thing made of wood was the coffin resting in front of the cave entrance. My throat tight, I went to it, falling to my knees and reaching for a stick to pry it open as quickly as I could.

Eli sat up, blinking his eyes as if he had just rose from a refreshing nap, and not the sleep of death. His cheeks were rosy and his eyes clear. He reached for me, and I pulled him into my lap without a second thought.

“Hello, Mama,” he said, as if nothing had happened.

In the years to come, I would remember the strange event every time I looked at my son, who grew into a strong man, inside and out. In the first days, I did not know what it meant, but as I heard about the other death in Jerusalem that day – the man they called Jesus of Nazareth – and how he had returned to life the third day after; when I heard that he was the Messiah, and he had come to defeat death so that we might not fear it and we might know that we could live again – live forever, I believed. All of us believed.

A life that is not spent in terror of the grave is a peaceful existence. But to know that our true life waits for us beyond our final breath, that is the true gift. This life is only but a moment, and then we are with him.

Praise to our conquering Messiah! He defeated the power of death and sin and set us free to live – and die, only to live once again – in his beautiful name.

When Jesus had cried out again in a loud voice, he gave up his spirit. At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom. The earth shook and the rocks split. The tombs broke open and the bodies of many holy people who had died were raised to life. They came out of the tombs, and after Jesus’ resurrection they went into the holy city and appeared to many people. – Matthew 27:50-53

My First Day in Heaven

It’s been a month since we parted ways so unexpectedly. A month in your time. I confess, it doesn’t really seem so long in my perspective. It doesn’t seem that short either. When you are outside of time looking in, it’s hard to keep track of it. We get busy talking or praising or watching the races of our brothers and sisters that are still running and we forget to appreciate what time means to you.

I do remember what happened a month ago today. When I was still with you I wasn’t sure I would remember my life, but I recall every detail with more startling accuracy than I could describe to you if I were given the chance to try. It seems far away and almost like a dream – my life there in that world – and I know now that where I am is where we were always meant to be. I hope you will find that a comfort – that I wouldn’t want to come back even if it were possible. I’m done. I’m free! I’m complete, and I’m with Him. You know I have no regrets.

I would like to say I had some twinge of foresight that told me I was making my final statements on facebook and twitter that night before. I always expected that there would be some sign, some clue that I was taking my last trip up those stairs and into my pajamas and into bed. That as I closed my eyes and gave a sigh, leaving behind the day and succumbing to rest that a weary body must have, I had just the smallest hint of excitement at what would happen.

I never woke up. Not in the sense you might worry about. I didn’t wake up to the terrible sense of dying, of pain and discomfort. When I opened my eyes, I felt strange, but not bad. I got up, feeling almost too light for my feet. I tried to ascertain what was different, and when I stepped in front of the mirror, I wondered if I was dreaming when I saw no reflection.

“Tom.”

That’s all he said, and though I had never heard the sound of his voice before, I knew in an instant who he was. It made sense that the room was impossibly bright in the moments just before dawn. It registered why it was warm and happy and familiar and peaceful.

I can’t say that he said my name just as you read it a moment ago. I recognized the word as my name, but the sound that came from his mouth was indescribable. I understand now why John couldn’t seem to come up with a good way to explain the things he saw in Revelation. It’s a higher plane. There’s nothing like it in the cursed world that still holds you captive. If I was going to tell you what the sound of his voice it like, I would take you back to the time we stood at the top of Niagra Falls, and ask you to close your eyes and listen to the sound of that roaring, rushing, falling water pouring over the rocks and crashing down below into the river. That is a very feeble, not quite accurate way to say how the voice of Jesus sounds in your ear. At the same time, it is a hushed, unhurried, affectionate whisper.

I wasn’t sure whether to fall to my knees, whether I still had knees, or if I should start dancing around the room like an elated five-year-old at Disneyland, which is what I felt like doing. I looked for the very first time into the face of the one that had existed before time, the one that took his immensity and forced it into the body of a man just so he could pay my pardon. The one that went all the way to death and back so he could have victory over mine, and this could be a happy moment of completion and not judgment.

“Lord,” I said, my voice breathless with awe. I wanted to say something, anything, to let him know how thankful I was to finally see him face to face. But seeing that knowing smile on his face and having him reach out his hand to me, I lost all the words I wanted to grab hold of.

“Well, done.” He embraced me, and I knew sheer, pure, unadulterated joy. The feeling that we spent our whole lives trying to grasp and never quite find. That “something missing” that we always feel in the back of our minds. It was suddenly and awesomely satisfied in the moment he put his arms around me.

I was still out of words, but he had some for me. “Do you want to stay here? I know it is earlier than you planned. I know you had more you wanted to accomplish. Your death will minister to those who need to hear the gospel. Because it will be sudden and long before the time they expected, it will be hard on the ones you love. But it will make a difference for the kingdom.”

In the back of my mind, I was somewhat aware of dim activity in the room. Medics? Were they trying to restart a heart? My heart went out to my family. We hadn’t planned to say goodbye so soon. There were things left unsaid, undone. It would be painful.

But when my eyes turned back to Jesus, and I saw the host of smiling angels standing around him, and my eyes began to focus on the people around him – loved ones I hadn’t seen for years, standing around him, smiling at me, young and strong and beautiful and holy… I knew I couldn’t. I knew I would have to let them go, because this was where I belonged. I knew they would understand in the little time it would take before they would join us. I hoped they would take comfort in the hope they believed in with every breath they took, just as I had. Just as I had taught them.

“I want to be with you!”

He nodded. We lingered, for a time. You may not have known it, but we sat with you in the living room while you faced the hardest day of your life. I wanted to wipe away your tears, to tell you somehow that we were there, that Jesus was right there with you and everything was going to be okay. That the best is yet to come.

I visited, with Christ, in the days that immediately followed. The precious moments that went by, with loved ones gathered near and tears shed and memories shared, with all my grandchildren running around the funeral home, while you sat under that tent in the cold at the cemetery, and in all the cherished moments of the memorial service while you honored Christ by remembering me and my story. I was there. I’m still there, though my attention is sometimes captured by Christ, by the people I am meeting and the first-hand stories I am enjoying. We are your cloud of witnesses. We’re waiting for you. You will understand in time, that it isn’t going to be much longer when you consider eternity. We’ll be together again soon. Our relationship will be different, but it will be better. We will have the perfected love, instead of the version we struggle for in that life. It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay. I know it, because I have eternity’s crystal-clear perspective to speak from. All the things I ever told you about heaven, and quite a few more wonderful things than I could have imagined – they will be yours one day as well. And I will be waiting to greet you. After you’re done saying hello to Jesus.

Keep the faith, my precious family. I love you still. I won’t stop. More importantly, HE won’t. We’ll be waiting with open arms when reunion day comes.  Just hold on a little longer.

Photo taken by Tom Parsons

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