The One Where She Gets Stranded on an Island {guest post}

Hong Kong, Andrea Stout.

By Andrea Stout | Instagram: @stoutwanderer

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before: a group of travelers finds themselves stranded, due to one disaster or another, on a tropical island, let’s just say somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. The question now, for the rest of this movie or TV series, is how will they survive, and, ultimately, will they make it home?

Yeah, I know, I’ve seen it, too. Feels a bit tired, doesn’t it? As a writer, and a professor of writing and storytelling, I fervently preach against predictable plot points and clichéd characters. “Avoid the tropes!” I might have admonished my students, when I still had a class to go to. But now, as an American expat living (or “stranded”) in Hong Kong during this current pandemic, tropes and clichéd characters seem all but impossible to avoid.

Superficially, everyone appears to be fulfilling the role set out for them in the script. Of course, nature is the villain in this one, so that’s easy—a tried and true antagonist. If it’s not aliens (said with no judgment aimed at my alien conspiracy theorist friends) or zombies, a virus works just as well as anything: a comet, an immediate global freeze, a cataclysmic seismic something rather involving shifting tectonic plates … as long as a scientist can explain it to us laypeople in a thirty second scene with some maps and cool graphics, we don’t really care.

Next, we need some human representatives of ideological differences voiced through political infighting: “We need to get these people out of here!” “Are you crazy?! All that will do is cause panic!” “It’s too late for them! We need to seal the borders now!” “We can’t firebomb that town! Human life is too precious!” Personally, I like to hear Morgan Freeman’s voice narrating the case for humanity, but … we have who we have, and they’re all acting their parts as best they can.

Moving on, crucially, we need the protagonist, followed by a cast of all the other personality types: the anxious one, the gruff one, the funny one, the hapless one, etc. Like I said, I study stories for a living, and I see why we like this kind of tale. It’s got everything we like: drama, action, suspense, all that we fear and all that we want to believe about the human spirit. And, naturally, we are all the protagonists in our own stories, so we identify and rejoice at the happy ending. Heroes all!

Having said that, I recognize that this is not fiction. And maybe that’s what is most frustrating me: I don’t know how to write it. Or, I should say, I don’t know how to write it without falling into tropes. Everything I might write feels clichéd: responses by governments, businesses, media outlets, our varied cast of characters, the conflicted protagonist … we’ve seen it all before.

If it were fiction, I could change it, like a writer changing history to make it more like how we would have liked it to be, or at least to cut out the boring parts. Instead, we have a plot that’s painfully dragging. Sure, some parts are fairly dramatic.

Hong Kong, for example, has had quite the year. We had the whole “protest thing,” starting spring of 2019, which I won’t go into but suffice it to say drastically and fundamentally impacted our daily lives here in this “special administrative region” and lasted into January of 2020, coming to no resolution but instead being unceremoniously usurped by what was then called “the novel coronavirus.”

We had already become acclimated to school and business closures, as well as event and trip cancelations, throughout the fall (our school term ended with finals having to be hastily conducted online) and tension between Hong Kong and mainland China was already palpable, so the only difference between the virus shut-down and the protests shut-down for most of us was that instead of “watch this space for daily announcements about closures,” we now had “school will be conducted virtually for the remainder of the term.”

In the West, the effects of the virus became a bigger story later (a topic for another time), but in Hong Kong, this has been the story since the end of January. Many expats began to read the writing on the wall, so to speak, or were simply too exhausted or too out of work to continue on here and began the exodus in February and continued on into March.

Now, it’s important to remind you, reader, that this is my story and I’m the protagonist here—this means you’re meant to be on my side. I could spend time trying to convince you with likeable and reasonable arguments for my decision to remain—most of it involving the fact that I had already decided this was to be my final year in my current position and I was making arrangements to move elsewhere to start at a new institution come fall and so wanted to finish out the term in Hong Kong and leave at the end of April—but, for the sake of brevity, I’ll just describe my decision this way: as my colleagues and friends began their similarly understandable and well-reasoned escapes, I did what seemed fitting for my character.

My role, which I accept, is to stay calm. I get things done, take things in stride, respond with logic, action, and, at times, humor … it’s the role I was born to play (putting aside conversations of nature vs. nurture). So, when my April 27th flight was canceled on April 2nd, I absolutely did not panic. Instead, I cried. I cried because, like all of us, I’m tired. I’m tired of cancelations, unrealized visits by friends and family, refunded play and festival tickets, month after month of online work/church/socializing/life, which feels like only partial living, and I’m tired of not knowing the ending and not even knowing when we will get the ending. It feels like being part of a TV series whose writers have abandoned the project midway through or have been told to put the writing on hold, and now it’s just dragging on with filler subplots, no end in sight.

I’m tired of not knowing the ending and not even knowing when we will get the ending. -Andrea Stout Click To Tweet

A brief aside here: In storytelling, there’s a common plot device called deus ex machina. It’s a Latin term, used in Greek theatre, meaning “god from the machine.” The gist of it is that, when characters find themselves in an unsolvable situation, they can be rescued suddenly by some outside force, like the hand of God reaching in, via ancient Greek set design and machinery, and hoisting them out. Commonly referred to examples now would be The Lord of the Rings eagles soaring in inexplicably to save the day or the Jurassic Park T-Rex crashing in from nowhere to chomp the other dinosaur that was imminently threatening our protagonists.

The idea is that help can always come, inexplicably or supernaturally, from above. It’s actually a nice idea, but nowadays, deus ex machina is considered by many in the industry to be “lazy writing.” The protagonist should save herself, be proactive and resourceful. Think Sigourney Weaver’s character, Ripley, in Aliens: yes, a machine is used defeat the seemingly undefeatable alien, but it’s not God in the machine—it’s Ripley. She knows how to control it, and she is the agent of her own victory.

Returning to our story, I will once again say that I’d be much more comfortable if this were fiction. I could give my protagonist an ability to fly planes or access to high-tech gadgetry, friends in the Pentagon (or Stark Tower), a magic lasso, unlimited resources, or, at least, stellar martial arts or warrior moves à la Catwoman or Wonder Woman. But as it is, this being nonfiction, I’m not sure what proactive measures I can write in for my character.

Waiting feels decidedly non-heroic, and waiting for “the hand of God” to swoop in and rescue me, despite my own personal faith that this is possible, still feels a bit like lazy writing on my part. But I guess that’s where I have to leave it. As far as cliffhangers go, this isn’t much of one—the protagonist is left safe on an island, packing boxes, reading, going for hikes, and checking emails for updates on flight statuses.

Will she get off the island come May, or will it be June? Only Deus knows. And hey, maybe I’m not the protagonist, after all. Maybe I’m the hapless one—the hapless writer, hanging out in the writers’ room, waiting for the go-ahead to write the ending. Until then, I’ll just be here, hoping the series doesn’t get canceled and reconsidering my thoughts on heroes and machines, eagles and aliens.

About Andrea:

Andrea Stout is a teacher, writer, and storyteller. She currently lives and works in Hong Kong. Follow her on Instagram.

Photos by Andrea Stout, used by permission.

Maybe You Shouldn’t Write That Book

Statistics tell us that 81 percent of people want to write a book in their lifetime. Since I wrote my own book, many friends in real life have confessed their secret desire to write a book of their own. Other online friends in writing groups ask questions about how to format their book proposals, query agents, or build their platform.

I often get asked the how. “How did this come about? How did you know what to write? How did you actually write it?” But before addressing the how of writing a book, individuals would benefit from musing over the question of why?

Why do you want to write a book–and why now?

When I wrote my book, I was 39 years old and had a one, three, and five-year-old at home. None of my kids were in school. Although my husband takes full responsibility for praying that book into existence, I still wrestle with my choice to write a book during an already full-to-the-brim time of life. Did it pour life into me and my family, or siphon off joy, peace, and family harmony? Why did I need to write it then?

Over the past few years as a blogger, book launch team member, and book reviewer, I’ve read many non-fiction books written by various authors with different publishers. As a writer, editor, and writing teacher, I have two thoughts:

1. Many books would benefit from better editing. While I’ve read some fabulous books, many that I read were too long, too wordy, or not structured well. Publishers are busy and editors have too much on their plate. Editors don’t have time to struggle back and forth with an author to get it just right. If you are writing a book, I recommend setting aside a portion of your advance to hire your own writing coach. The classics became classics because they had outstanding editors (see The Artful Edit).

2. Many people write their books too soon. We are eager to birth our stories into the world, but many of them are born prematurely. We harvest the gardens of our lives long before they have come to full bloom. Patience should be the writer’s greatest virtue. Our stories usually benefit from a longer time in the ground, on the stalk, or growing on the vine.

Last week my kids and I watched the 2016 animated film Leap about an orphan who becomes a ballerina in Paris (love me a good dancing movie). Throughout the film, her mentor asks her, “Why do you dance?” She doesn’t know, doesn’t have a good answer. Until the end. It is only when she internalizes her “why” that her dancing demonstrates the passion, grace, and conviction required to take her from average to extraordinary.

Some writers claim that writing is their calling. I wrestle with the concept of “calling” because I believe we over-spiritualize and amass undue weight to “Our Call.”

Instead of thinking of writing as my calling, I think of it as my compulsion. Writing is this thing I can’t not do. It’s this thing that helps me illuminate what I ultimately believe about myself, God, and the world. It attunes me to wonder in the world and invites mystery into my ordinary days. Writing–in my journal or for an audience–works out the kinks in my psyche and soul in a way just pondering or talking about those things can’t quite do. Writing, for better or for worse, is an addiction. A compulsion. A need.

I recently finished reading the compelling memoir When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi, a neurosurgeon diagnosed with lung cancer who died before completing the manuscript. When he finally resigned from his work at the hospital, he poured all the rest of his creative energy his last year of life into “finally writing that book.” In his final chapter he writes, “Words have a longevity I do not.” We write to immortalize ourselves.

But writing a book costs us. For me, the price of writing this book was:

  • Less physical time with my kids (which I was fine with, actually–“I have a book to write” feels like a noble excuse for temporary escape. Much better than “I have a blog post to write or novel to read.”)
  • Fractured and distracted time with my kids and my husband. (Nothing like a surprise invasion of imposter syndrome, comparison, or “But I can’t do this” lament to sideline foreplay.)
  • Much money spent on babysitters, new headshots, postage for mailing books, writing at a nearby Abbey, paying my own book coach and publicist, writing software, purchasing books for research, paying for my own advance reader copies (ARCs) to distribute to influencers, paying for ads on Instagram, and for my launch party. (My husband calls all this “investment in my career”… most days I agree.)
  • The mental/emotional toll of All The Voices. The result for me was often insomnia, sometimes tears, and the occasional freak out.
  • Loss of friendships. Every spare moment was spent writing my book. While I used to spend naptimes calling long-distance friends, I now needed to spend that time researching or writing my book. While I used to have time to chat with moms at pre-school pickup-up, I needed to rush home to get to work on a book about making time for people and building community (the irony!).

Before you write that book, count the cost. What’s it worth to you? Could your stories wait?

One friend says she makes decisions based on the criteria: “Does this give life to me and my family or steal life from me and my family?” But is it fair to use the “life-giving/life-stealing criteria” for evaluating the creation of art? Or is the transformation of my readers, their churches, and their neighborhoods worth the temporary strain on my marriage, friendships, and family? (This is where believing in a “Higher Calling” would come in handy. Higher Callings demand personal sacrifice for the greater good of humanity. Do I believe my writing is that far-reaching?)

In Walking on Water, Madeleine L’Engle says that “if the work comes to the artist and says, ‘Here I am, serve me,’ then the job of the artist, great or small, is to serve.”

I don’t write because it brings me or my family greater happiness (though I confess I’ve had moments of exhilaration). I don’t write because it brings me greater peace, joy, or helps me sleep better at night (it doesn’t). And I don’t write because I want to be famous, rich, or accomplished. I write because I must. Not writing is more painful, awkward, and–dare I say–foolish. Not writing feels like disobedience. Not writing would be leaving behind the topo map, compass, and binoculars I’ve been gifted to instead bushwhack through the forest blind.

Until we know why we write, our faulty reasons for writing and wanting to publish a book will lead us astray. (To be fair, sometimes we write to pay the bills … this is not exactly what I’m talking about here. There are usually about three hundred better ways to put groceries in your fridge and gas in your car than becoming a writer.)

Before you pursue that agent, that book proposal, that book deal, I urge you to wrestle with your why. And after that, ask yourself some questions:

  • Why is now the right time?
  • Would my stories benefit from a bit more marinating? A bit more time curing and being cultivated in secret? Has my story reached maturation?
  • Must I write?

As writers, we can google “how” to write a book. We can take classes, read books, join online writing communities, and listen to writers on podcasts. But every writer must work out their own “why.”

Why do you write? And are you meant to write that book now? If your answer is yes, then go in peace and serve the work. It may well be the hardest thing you ever do. (Just don’t say no one warned you.) And don’t be shocked if when it’s turned in, printed, and launching out into the world, instead of relaxing in a kayak on a serene lake or tickling your children under an apple tree, you feel The Tug. And you know. You may just need to do it all over again.

*This post contains Amazon affiliate links

How We Wait: A Poet’s Spiritual Practice {guest post} + BOOK GIVEAWAY

By Abigail Carroll | Website

This year, my church celebrated Lent in an unconventional way: we created art together. Specifically, we snapped black-and-white photographs designed to capture the theme of waiting.

Everyone was invited to submit their best six photos, and a skilled artist in the congregation assembled them into what we called a photography quilt, which we displayed during the Palm Sunday service.

As a member of the Arts Team, I had helped come up with the idea, but I harbored concerns that we would find a sufficient variety of examples when it came to visually depicting waiting—would we all end up photographing the same six things? I also wondered about the spiritual value of the project: would it merely offer a feel-good community experience, or would the church grow spiritually? Would I grow spiritually?

To my astonishment, I hardly had to search for waiting: it found me.

Shortly after we launched this arts initiative, I found myself in that iconic space of involuntary tarrying: a hospital waiting room. A woman at my church with no family in the area had asked me to pick her up following minor surgery. I arrived at the hour she was scheduled for release, but the surgery had been delayed, took longer than expected, and required more recovery time than usual.

Because I had anticipated a simple pick-up, I had neglected to pack reading material or my laptop, so I spent what amounted to about eight hours flipping through magazines, wandering hospital lobbies, and listening to the conversations of others who were also waiting. I found myself moved to pray for many.

As I snapped a photo of the sign, Bernice and Milton Stern Surgical Waiting Area, I realized that what I was waiting for was more than my friend to emerge from the surgical ward in a wheelchair escorted by a nurse: I was waiting—with a deep sense of yearning—for the time when surgery will be obsolete, when, as John the Revelator puts it, “there will be no more death or mourning and crying or pain” (Revelations 21:4). I was waiting for the old order of things to pass away and the new order of things to be ushered in.

The second photograph I snapped was not in a hospital, but in my home.

My spirit had been feeling lifeless for some time, and I had been struggling to experience refreshment in prayer. One day when I was simply out of words to pray, I decided to take ten minutes with God in quiet with no attempt to use (or even think) words.

I installed myself in the rocker at my bedroom window overlooking a neighboring farm, and I gazed out over the white, snowy pastures. Something happened during those ten minutes that I can’t quite name. When I rose from my chair, I sensed that God’s presence had been with me, and my soul felt as though it had taken a deep, long breath. Once again, the theme of waiting had found me, so I photographed the chair next to the window, bathed in winter light.

A third image of waiting presented itself while I was on a walk, but not just any walk.

I had learned that dear friends whom I considered practically family would be moving away. I was devastated. All morning, the sky had been spitting snow, and my heart was feeling as bleak as the damp day, which, though it was April in Vermont, yielded no sign of spring. That is, until I stumbled on a pile of brush on the side of the road sporting small velvety buds. It was pussy willow branches that had been clipped, but were blossoming just the same. I gathered some of the clippings and snapped a photo, and as I did, I realized the picture was less about the willow clippings, than of my clipped soul, which felt utterly dormant and cut off, but which I knew would bud again, even if I couldn’t yet see the life.

We are all waiting for something—a call, news about a job, a broken bone to heal, vacation, the coffee to percolate, spring. Waiting is inherent to the human condition. What I realized, as I participated in our Lenten arts project, however, is that just as the poetry of everyday life resonates with eternal truths, every instance of our day-to-day waiting bears the imprint of a larger waiting.

In his letter to the Romans, Paul says, “[We] groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies” (Romans 8:23). This is the ultimate waiting to which all our other waiting points.

On Palm Sunday, when the photography quilt hung before the congregation, we beheld a portrait of our individual waiting, but also of our collective hope—a hope in the gospel’s promise that one day all which is broken will be restored.

I like to think that the act of snapping each photograph helped pique our hunger for a world gloriously renewed. At the very least, it piqued mine. I have come to recognize the experience of longing in my daily life as an opportunity to remember the One for whom I long, who has pledged to renew all things. As for pussy willows and waiting rooms, I don’t think I’ll ever look at them in quite the same way again.

***

BOOK GIVEAWAY!

We are giving away two of Abigail’s books of poetry: Habitation of Wonder (Wipf & Stock 2018) and A Gathering of Larks: Letters to Saint Francis from a Modern-Day Pilgrim (Eerdmans 2017).

TWO WAYS TO ENTER

1. Sign up for my newsletter below AND/OR

2. Tag up to four friends on either my Instagram or Facebook posts about this blog post and I’ll enter YOU (not your friend) once per friend you tag! Contest ends Wednesday, July 4th, at midnight (MT)*Only U.S. residents, please! And no bots;-)

 

About Abigail:

Abigail Carroll is author of two books of poetry, Habitation of Wonder (Wipf & Stock 2018) and A Gathering of Larks: Letters to Saint Francis from a Modern-Day Pilgrim (Eerdmans 2017). Her first book, Three Squares: The Invention of the American Meal (Basic Books 2013), was a finalist for the Zocalo Book Award. She serves as pastor of arts and spiritual formation at Church at the Well in Burlington, Vermont. You can find her online at www.abigail-carroll.com and follow her on Twitter at @ACarrollPoet.

Sign up for the (occasional) Mid-month Digest and the (loosely) “end of the month” Secret Newsletter for Scraping Raisins Here:

*This post contains Amazon affiliate links

**All images except the first one are the property of Abigail Carroll and are used with permission.

No “Late” Bloomers: Late Weddings, Old Moms & Delayed Creativity


“Are you dating anyone?” the woman asked me after church over mini muffins and bad coffee.

I shook my head.

“Oh, you have plenty of time,” she said to me. Turning to my mom, she added, “My daughter was a late bloomer.” I was spending the summer at home in Florida after graduation from college. I planned to move to Chicago to start teaching in the fall.

“Yeah, she got married in her late twenties,” she continued, my mom nodding along. I clutched my Styrofoam cup, inwardly marveling that I was no longer a college student, but was now labeled according to my marital status. I was now “a single.”

Even at the time I thought she was being a bit harsh in expecting her daughter to get married right out of college. And over the years, that phrase, “late bloomer,” has always grated on me.

Can God be “late”?

When you try to put your feet in the steps of Jesus as you live your life, can you describe any transition as “late”?

According to that woman, I would have gotten married “late,” at age 32. I would have had babies “late,” at age 33, 35, and 37. And I would have started writing “late” in my mid-30’s. But I don’t believe God is ever late.

Spring dragged her feet in arriving to Colorado this year. Tulips and daffodils, the first signs of spring, eased from the ground a few weeks later than they usually do.

We made it home from vacation last week just in time for the peonies in early June. I nearly didn’t see them because the thin stems couldn’t support the huge, fat blossoms and their faces were flattened against the rocky ground. As a first-time homeowner, this is my first summer here and I’ve watched curiously as each new flower type surges up and out, exploding in the Colorado sun, then shrivels just as a different bloom takes over the show. First daffodils, then red tulips, white apple blossoms, lilacs, irises, and now roses and fluffy peonies.

Not a single bloom has been late—each one a note rightly-timed in the rhythm of spring’s symphony.

Because spring seemed delayed this year, I was more eager—desperate, even–for its arrival. Spring unlocks a suppressed something in me and I want to weep when I spy the first green shoots poking from the dirt or bright flowers decorating the yard. For me, spring is an emotional release from months of cold, dreary, color-less winter, a catapult back into lusty life.

Waiting primes us for greater gratitude when the thing we wait for finally arrives. Though I fully embraced being single and knew that marriage would not bring me ultimate joy or pleasure, I still longed for a life-long companion. And though I knew (or thought I knew) how children would alter the landscape of my life, I still yearned for the interruption. The long years of hopeful winters made me more thankful for spring when it finally came.

I’m not a young mom, but I do have young kids. I don’t fit the “young mom” category that many church ladies cluster women into. In fact, many moms with kids the ages of my kids are at least ten years younger than me. But I still don’t believe I got married or had kids “late.”

I published my first piece of writing at age 36, not because I was a “late bloomer,” but because my talent bloomed exactly when it was supposed to.

“My soil is like silk,” my 78 year old neighbor—my gardening mentor–boasted when I lamented that mine is like a rock. “You need to really work on your soil before you try planting in it,” she advised.

Art, too, often requires years of silent cultivation before the first flower can break through the ground.

Browsing through a bookstore recently, I picked up a book from the shelf about Laura Ingalls Wilder. I was surprised to learn that she didn’t start writing until she was in her 40’s, and didn’t publish Little House in the Big Woods until she was in her 60’s. Perhaps her childhood experiences needed years of marinating before they were ready to share with the world.

“Late” implies something didn’t go as planned. Perhaps the Master Gardener needs a bit more time with his hands in the soil, kneading, folding in nutrients, transforming rot and death into healthy soil for new growth to form. We may long for change, but waiting doesn’t mean Jesus isn’t there, that God isn’t working, or that plans have gone awry. Because in God’s kingdom, nothing blooms “late,” but always right on time.

***

What are you waiting for? In what ways are you a “late bloomer”? How would your life have been different if everything had followed your own timeline?

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Our theme this month is “Create.” If you are a maker, artist, or creator and you would like to guest post, I still have a few spots left! Otherwise, check out the themes for the coming months here. The theme for July is “Hospitality Around the World.” And if you’re not interested in guest posting, follow me on social media (buttons on the top right) to be sure you don’t miss a post this month!

Sign up for the (occasional) Mid-month Digest and the (loosely) “end of the month” Secret Newsletter Here:

No "Late Bloomers: Late Weddings, Old Moms & Delayed Creativity #marriage #motherhood #creativity #transitions #timing #Godsdelays #oldmoms #metaphors

 

The Two Week Wait

No one ever talks about the woman’s longest wait. The two weeks between attempting to conceive and waiting to see if you were successful in getting pregnant is agony.

You are acutely aware of every tinge, flutter and nauseous feeling (even if it’s just the garlic bread you had for supper). You may take your temperature daily or at least take your emotional temperature, wondering if this or that feeling is a sign the cells are multiplying. That life is forming even as you sit typing at your desk or wash up the evening dishes. You wonder and you wait. You pray prayers for life to be formed, then tell yourself that you’re being silly because life has already been initiated—or it hasn’t.

You open your calendar four times a day, checking again to see how early you can take a test. You Google it and wonder if it’s worth it to spend an extra $10 on the tests that promise to deliver the news four days earlier. I can wait, you tell yourself. But then you break down and take the test two days before you know it’s time and experience the first surge of emotion.

Disappointment.

Relief?

But then hope.

Maybe it was negative because you took it too early. So your rush out to Dollar Tree to buy more tests so you don’t have to feel guilty about wasting money on taking early tests. Annoyingly, the tests are too high on the shelf to reach, so you have to get a high school-aged employee to assist you. You try not to feel embarrassed, telling yourself you’re an adult and it’s none of her business anyway.

“How many?” she asks.

“Five,” you mumble, trying to ignore her raised eyebrow.

You tell yourself to just wait until you get your period and then you’ll know for sure, but it’s impossible to sit back and wait at this point. Because your life may be about to change completely. Or you may be back where you started. If that’s the case, you think, I’m definitely having more than one glass of wine tonight.

In the two week wait, you are often alone. If you have experienced many months of these waits, you may stop even mentioning it to your husband because he still doesn’t know what to say even after all these months. You cringe when acquaintances ask you if you want to have a baby or if you’re “trying.” “We’ll see,” you say.

And so you sit with your hope, and cradle your heart to try and shield it from the threat of sadness. You tear open yet another test—this time you are a day late, so the results should be accurate. But only one strong pink line appears.

You hate that line—or the absence of it’s companion. To combat the disappointment as you bury it in the trash can, hoping your husband won’t notice there is more than one in there, you tick off all the reasons why you’re glad the test is negative: you can have that margarita with dinner tonight, ride a roller coaster this summer, gorge yourself on sushi, or run a half marathon after all. Life is simple again. Your body is your own. At least for another two weeks.

You try to manage your jealousy when you spot women at church who have gotten pregnant so easily (or so you assume). Doing the math, you discover that if you had conceived when you planned, you would have been as far along as so-and-so. Then you feel angry with yourself for going to such lengths to compare yourself.

Your story may linger here. It may include more insensitive questions, experimental methods and more loss. It may require embracing a new way, plan or hope. It may not end the way you wanted.

Or one month that is many months later than you would have liked, you take a test—two days early again—and you lean over the counter to peer into the tiny plastic window. You see a faint pink line. The sign of life. And it is only then that you realize that the wait has just begun.

(For the record, I wrote this exactly two years ago, so it is not about today. Just FYI. See this post😉 )

***

I have three books to giveaway this month, so keep an eye out for them! This week, I’m giving away a copy of Long Days of Small Things: Motherhood as Spiritual Discipline. You can read my review here, but it’s a fabulous book to buy for moms of young children who need a breath of fresh air. Sign up for my newsletter by this Friday (5/11) at midnight (MT) and I’ll send you a copy! Already signed up? Then like the Instagram or Facebook post I put up on 5/8 and tag up to four friends in the comments section (I’ll enter your name once per friend you tag)! Sorry, only U.S. residents and no bots allowed. 😉

It would make a fabulous mother’s day gift for a mom in the trenches!

Sign up for the Mid-month Digest and Secret Newsletter Here:

***

This month on Scraping Raisins, we’re talking about adoption, foster care and children. If you’re interested in guest posting about this theme, shoot me an email at scrapingraisins (dot) gmail (dot) com. The theme for June is “Create,” so you can also be thinking ahead for that, too. Be sure to check back or follow me on social media so you don’t miss the fabulous guest posters I have lined up this month!

Blog Post: The Two Week Wait. No one ever talks about the woman’s longest wait. The two weeks between attempting to conceive and waiting to see if you were successful in getting pregnant is agony.

**Contains Amazon affiliate links.

Picture from Google Images, Creative Commons.

Waiting for Life to Start

Waiting for Life to Start

A dove sits on her nest in the planter by the window. My brother in California sends us frequent (unsolicited) text updates on the soft grey mama bird. We see her from every angle. She waits in her manmade jungle, watching. Resting. Sitting. Protecting. A sacred vigil.

Five years ago I, too, waited for new life. It was about this time of year in the spring when I first felt the “quickening” of life fluttering in my womb. It felt like a fish nose bumping against a plastic bag won at the county fair. Life tapped my insides, reminding me I wasn’t alone. I housed a treasure.

I shared the dove’s intense desire to protect, guard and be vigilant. No poisonous food or misstep would harm this baby on my watch.

It was my pleasure to wait.

Now, three babies later, I wonder if mama dove feels isolated. Does she wish she could flit on the wind like her peers? Does she miss swooping down over the ocean at twilight? Does she resent having to stay close to home? Does she feel lonely?

And yet blood, bones, feathers and features are forming beneath her warm body. She is immobile, but not unproductive. She has less control than she thought. But miracles are happening in spite of her motionlessness. Or perhaps because of it.

Soon her nest will be full of noise and movement. Scrambling bodies demanding more food, touch and attention. No time to watch the wind or long for a day at sea.

Last week we received another picture text. Mama sitting still, awake and alert. I glance at my phone in line at the grocery story, wrangling kids and bagging groceries with a baby hanging off my body. In the parking lot, I check my phone before pulling out. My mom replied to the group text. “BABIES!!!” I scroll back to the photo, zooming in. Sure enough, three wet heads with large black eyes nestle under mama bird. It happened.

Messy life erupts from darkness.

***

What are you waiting for?

Do you believe your waiting is accomplishing something?

Perhaps newness is developing quietly. Silently. As you sit right where you are.

Linking up with Velvet Ashes

When the Answer is “Not Now” {For SheLoves}

 

What about a driving school for Muslim women? My mind buzzes with the possibilities, spinning the details into a feasible plan. I just dropped our Saudi Arabian exchange student off at the international terminal and in the quiet hum of the hour-long interstate ride home, I plan, strategize and dream. Most of the Saudi international student girls I’ve met have a secret desire to learn how to drive since they are not permitted to drive in their country. Likewise, they all complain about the expensive driving schools in the U.S. or about taking private lessons where they have to be alone in a car with a man. We have a spare car, I think. And I could give private lessons and get to know the women at the same time. Perfect …

As I turn the minivan off the interstate at our exit, I hear stirring in the backseat, then arguing, then shrieking. I sigh, smoothing the bunched-up shirt over my ever-growing belly, remembering. Lost in Imaginary Land where I could chase every dream, I had forgotten my reality: two children under four and a baby on the way. I tuck the idea away in the attic of my heart, thinking, If only …

***

Several months later, scrubbing potatoes by the window at the kitchen sink, I watch my elderly neighbor shuffle around in his backyard, shoveling snow. In summer, he and his wife spend hours each day planting, watering, weeding and coaxing incredible beauty out of dry ground. It has always perplexed me, actually, because I’ve never seen anyone else in their yard. It seems like such a waste to sculpt beauty for no one to see.

Standing at the kitchen counter, I think about the notebook I carry around with me that probably has 200 titles of blog posts and ideas to write about. Some of those words will grow, blossom and die without a single other person ever reading them—just a secret thought between God and me. But some will be cut and handed out for others to enjoy (though, like freshly cut flowers, they will likely be forgotten with the next day’s round of blog posts, email newsletters and online journals).

What a waste, I think. But then I begin to wonder …

Is hidden beauty still beautiful?

Continue reading at SheLoves.

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