Then came the manna...

Immediately after the Exodus, the people of Israel began to grumble. They were tired. They were hungry. “At least in captivity we ate all the food we wanted,” they said (Ex 16:3). So that evening the LORD sent quail; but in the morning He sent something different. He sent manna.

Manna. A “small round substance as fine as frost” (Ex 16:14) that “looked like white coriander seed, tasted like wafers made with honey” (Ex 16:31) or “pastry prepared with oil.” (Num 11:8). It could be baked or boiled, “ground in a handmill or crushed in a mortar, cooked in a pot or made into cakes” (Ex 16:23; Num 11:8). The manna appeared with the morning dew then melted away as the sun grew hot (Ex 16:21).

For forty years the Israelites ate manna. In fact, according to Joshua 5:10-12, the manna did not stop until the Israelites had crossed the Jordan River, camped at Gilgal on the plains of Jericho, kept the Passover, and eaten the crops of Canaan.

As a writer, how many times have I, like the Hebrews, grumbled against the LORD—asking for words of meat but receiving only manna? “It’s not enough!” I cry. “It won’t sustain me!” How many times have I begged Him to fill the empty white pages with words that will feed the souls of others and draw them into my story, only to end up with minuscule fragments that seem to melt away with the morning sun?

Too many times to count.

I, like the Israelites, sometimes want to walk away. Sometimes want to return to the way things were before the LORD called me to write. A simpler way. A way that didn’t require collecting a handful of manna each morning and hoping those words would be enough to get me through the day. But like the Israelites, I can’t walk away from a place the LORD wants me to be. So I’ll step out in faith, one more time, and take God’s daily provision of words. His daily provision of manna.

“How sweet are your words to my taste, sweeter than honey to my mouth!”
Psalms 119:103

Fear

Writing is easy:
all you do is sit staring
at a blank sheet of paper
until the drops of blood
form on your forehead.
—Gene Fowler

There’s this amazing book I read back in December of 2007 called Art & Fear: Observations on the Perils (and rewards) of Artmaking by David Bayles and Ted Orland (copyright 1993 Image Continuum Press). It talked about writing being an art, and writers dealing with some of the same issues other artists dealt with.

The opening paragraph says this:

“MAKING ART IS DIFFICULT. We leave drawings unfinished and stories unwritten. We do work that does not feel like our own. We repeat ourselves. We stop before we have mastered our materials, or continue on long after their potential is exhausted. Often the work we have not done seems more real in our minds than the pieces we have completed. And so questions arise: How does art get done? Why, often, does it not get done? And what is the nature of the difficulties that stop so many who start?” (Bayles & Orland, pg 1, 1993)

As the title of the book suggests, fear is one the greatest motivating factors behind a writer 1) not starting a project, or 2) not completing it. It’s what binds and cripples them. It’s what wears them down and gives them reason to quit. And it’s what metabolizes their writing into artistic disease or, worse yet, artistic death.

Bayles and Orland talk about artistic death and how it comes about:

“…while artists always have a myriad of reasons to quit, they consistently wait for a handful of specific moments to quit. Artists quit when they convince themselves that their next effort is already doomed to fail. And artists quit when they lose the destination for their work—for the place their work belongs.

“Virtually all artists encounter such moments. Fear that your next work will fail is a normal, recurring and generally healthy part of the artmaking cycle. It happens all the time: you focus on some new idea in your work, you try it out, run with it for awhile, reach a point of diminishing returns, and eventually decide it's not worth pursuing further. Writers even have a phrase for it — "the pen has run dry" — but all media have their equivalents. In the normal artistic cycle this just tells you that you've come full circle, back to that point where you need to begin cultivating the next new idea. But in artistic death it marks the last thing that happens: you play out an idea, it stops working, you put the brush down...and thirty years later you confide to someone over coffee that, well, yes, you had wanted to paint when you were much younger. Quitting is fundamentally different from stopping. The latter happens all the time. Quitting happens once. Quitting means not starting again—and art is all about starting again.” (Balyes & Orland, pg 10, 1993)

The American Heritage Dictionary describes fear as: “A feeling of agitation and anxiety caused by the presence or imminence of danger. A state or condition marked by this feeling.” Which makes me wonder…is the fear writers often possess imaginary, or is it real? Are we in the presence of immanent danger when we write? And if so, from what?

The authors of Art & Fear put the fear factor into two basic categories: fears about yourself and fears about your reception by others. In “fears about yourself,” Bayles and Orland say fear is often rooted in our concern that others may find out we’re not really writers…that we are “pretending.” Or that we really don’t have talent. Then there’s the lie of perfectionism: Our writing isn’t good enough to qualify us past the level of “hobbyist.” In “fears about the reception by others,” the authors state “acceptance” and “approval” are two of the greatest fears artists face.

“For the artist, the issue of acceptance begins as one simple, haunting question: When your work is counted, will it be counted as art? It's a basic question, with antecedents stretching back to childhood.” (Bayles & Orland, pg 41, 1993)

“…Acceptance means having your work counted as the real thing; approval means having people like it.” (Bayles & Orland, pg 45, 1993)

So how do we overcome this fear? How do we get past this debilitating disease? How can we walk forward in our writing when we feel our legs are nothing more than mush and Jello?

First, we must recognize God as the Author and Creator of our work is. Second, we need to acknowledge that in Him and through Him all things are possible. Third, we must keep our eyes on the LORD and not “turn aside to the left or to the right” (Deuteronomy 5:32 NIV) so that our feet remain on the path He’s called us to. And fourth, we need to remember that the spirit of fear is NOT of God. “For God has not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.” (2 Timothy 1:7 NKJV)

Writing is a call. A special one. We are scribes of the LORD, and our work matters as much today as it did for the ancients thousands of years ago. For when we rely on our heavenly Father to work in us and write though us, we find there is no bondage of fear. Instead there is a sweet, gentle voice whispering in our ears, “Well done, good and faithful servant!”

This job has been given to me to do.
Therefore, it is a gift.
Therefore, it is a privilege.
Therefore, it is an offering I may make to God.
Therefore, it is to be done gladly, if it is done for Him .
Here, not somewhere else, I may learn God’s way.
In this job, not in some other, God looks for faithfulness.
— Elisabeth Elliot

The Seed

Early this morning I was reading an article in Guidepost about a woman who pursued her dream of designing aprons. Half way through the article the author talked about picking up a book a friend had recommended and having the following phrase pop off the page: “God gave you gifts and the only way to bless others is to use them.”

I finished the article, closed the magazine, and thought, that's nice...glad the Lord encouraged her like that.

Shortly thereafter I went upstairs to figure out what to write for my portion of the June ACFW Colorado blog. I stared at my computer screen for a few minutes, opened Microsoft Word, positioned my fingers on the keyboard, then sat there as a blank piece of white, virtual paper stared back.

What to write? What to write?

I fidgeted in my chair a bit, toyed with some papers on my desk, then looked back at my screen.

Nothing.

As this whole staring-at-a-blank-piece-of-virtual-paper thing was not working, I decided to head downstairs and fix myself a glass of ice water. While down there I thought what the heck, I’ll make myself a bagel and turn on “Judge Judy.” Maybe I’ll somehow get inspired that way.

It didn’t work.

After finishing my snack, I turned off the TV and headed back upstairs. Plopping down in my chair, I turned to look at the computer screen and mutter a quick prayer.

“Lord, help me.”

Within seconds the phrase that jumped out at the Guidepost author, jumped out at me: “God gave you gifts and the only way to bless others is to use them.”

I looked around.

“You talking to me, Lord?” I asked.

In my mind I could see Him nod.

“Hey, listen…” I started, “I understand what You’re trying to do here and I appreciate it, I really do, but we have a problem. You see, I don’t have those kind of gifts.”

The seed must die and fall to the ground, Jill. The voice in my head was quiet, yet firm.

“What seed?”

It must die so it can produce many seeds.

I was getting desperate. “What seed, Lord? I don’t know what You’re talking about! First You mention gifts, then You mention seeds. What seed to you mean?”

The seed of writing. You must either let that seed—that gift—die so I can multiple it through you and bless others, or you can keep the seed and settle for nothing more than one, fruitless trophy seed. The choice is yours.

“But I told You, I don’t have a seed like that.”

Yes, you do. Don’t bury it. Give it to Me, and allow me to plant it…to help it die so it can produce fruit.

As the Lord said that, in my mind’s eye I could see Him reach forward and pluck something from me—like one would pluck a grape from a vine. He then took what He plucked, knelt down, and pushed the object (along with His finger) deep into soft, fertile soil. Then He pulled His finger out, stood up, looked at me, smiled, and walked away.

I wanted to dig up the seed, run after Him, and yell, “Hey, Lord, what was that all about?” But I didn’t. Not this time. This time I let it be.

I don’t know what’s going to happen next. Maybe an overnight writing miracle, maybe not. But in any case it really doesn’t matter, does it? All that matters is the Lord now has the seed and the rest, as they say, is HIStory. ;)

* * * *

“I tell you the truth, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds.” (John 12:24)

Spring Cleaning

I am not a clean freak. Dust does not offend me. And I’m okay with organized clutter. I do, however, have my limits.

Take, for instance, my living room: The one place in my house that’s always clean. Always. Of course, that means family members are not allowed to enter its realm unless they sit quietly on the couch or tap lightly on the piano keys. Doing anything beyond that usually results in someone getting the “mom look” and a brief scolding.

Next room on my nice-n-tidy priority list is the dining room—probably because it can be seen from the living room.

Prior three goes to the kitchen and priority four to the family room.

As far as the rest of the house goes, well, it’s pretty much a free-for-all.

When I think of my house—its tidy parts and its messy parts—I also think of my life…and my writing. Upon first inspection, some areas look clean and organized. Those are the ones you see. But if you look closer, if you dig deep down into my heart, you will find areas that are so unkempt that I’d rather have a train run over me than show them to you.

David once said, “Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my thoughts. Point out anything in me that offends you, and lead me along the path of everlasting life.” (Psalm 139:23-24 NLT)

Are you willing to let the Lord search your life? Will you let Him test you? Will you allow Him take control of everything—including your writing, even if that means laying aside that which you desire for that which He desires? Will you let Him into those nice-n-tidy and/or unkempt areas to do some spring-cleaning, or will you bar the doors and say, “Another time, Lord.”

* * * * *

Heavenly Father, my life, my time, my writing—all this belongs to You. I give You permission to freely roam its halls, open its doors, and rearrange or reorganize according to Your will. For it is You who calls. It is You who strengthens and encourages. It is Your path—Your priority of “organization” that matters, not mine. Guide me and teach me, O Lord, according to Your wisdom. And lead me along the path of everlasting life.

There is No God Like My God.

There is no God like my God. For who else could command the sun to rise in the east and set in the west? Who else could stay the moon and tell the waves of the ocean to only come so far?

All things have beginning. Not in the minds of men, but in the heart of God.

Life comes from life, and is breathed out through the power of the LORD. His hands mold and create like a fine artisan. His eyes search the globe for hearts of men who will believe in Him and believe His word to be true.

My God is like a fortress. His wings protect me and His Spirit pours life into my soul. His wells are never dry and His table never empty. He prepares a place for me to rest at night and a safe path for me to walk at dawn. His angels stand guard day and night. They rejoice at His glory and bow at His song. His arms sway gracefully upward as He conducts His symphony. Stars cry out as His melody spreads itself to the far corners of the universe. As He exhales the universe expands and as He inhales, it contracts. Like the beating of a heart, it keeps all things alive.

Grace and mercy are the names of my LORD. They adorn His garments like fine weavings. His crown shines with the brilliance of a million suns and the train of His robe wraps around the expanse. The sea and sky and soil of the earth rejoice in His presence. In excitement they collide like cymbals and swell to the beating of His drums—a thousand orchestras, bowing to His glory and majesty.

Oh how great is my God! How great He is indeed. For although I am nothing more than a tiny seed, His hand raises me up like a mighty redwood. His voice is heard in my ears and His love is felt in my heart. My arms extend like branches to receive Him as He reaches down to embrace me with unconditional love.

No, there is no God like my God.

None.

“A man can no more diminish God’s glory
by refusing to worship Him
than a lunatic can put out the sun
by scribbling the word
DARKNESS
on the walls of his cell.”
-C. S. Lewis

Dear Diary

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Dear Diary,

Another day. Another blog. I almost forgot about this one. Looked at my calendar and realized it was the 25th. Oops! LOL. Anyway, I wanted to jot down some of my thoughts in regard to what happened to me this past week—a week where God dove deep, down, inside my heart and pulled up things I didn’t even know were there. Lovely things. Frightening things. Things that challenged who I was in Him.

Question: Where do I start?

Ah yes…

Eight years ago God called me to write something that was beyond my comprehension. One story. Nine books. An epic. Then He said “apprentice.” So I did.

Things went along just fine…for a while. Then my “wine skins” dried up. I wanted to quit. But God said “no.” Said He’d provide me with new skins—ones that would never empty. And He did.

Enter ACFW. Enter Kathy and Paula. Enter Heather and others.

I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t hard. It was. There’s a lot of pressure making yourself accountable to a group of women who barely know you. Sharing your dreams, your visions, your words from the Lord. Watching in amazement as they stand by you—believe in you even when you don’t/can’t believe in yourself.

So, dear diary, I stepped out in faith and trusted.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into a few years. Time did what it does best: moved forward. Sometimes slow. Sometimes fast. Sometimes at a steady drip, like water from a faucet. Yet these friends stayed there. So did the story.

Writing is an interesting experience. You start out not knowing who your characters are or what they’ll be doing. For a while you feel like a stranger in a foreign land. But before you know it, the characters—the story—belongs to you, becomes a part of you. But not without challenge.

Last week was my challenge.

Five days ago a friend sent me a link to an article posted on publishersweekly.com. When I read it, my heart stopped, my blood froze, every cliché I’d ever heard, happened. Thoughts exploded through my head as doubt clashed with promise, fear clashed with hope. I began to question everything the Lord had told me regarding my call, regarding the story, regarding His promise.

How could someone else—someone secular—been given the same story I had? Someone who I could not compete against? Someone with credentials a mile long that could propel his books—my books—into the public’s eye? And by autumn, nonetheless. It was eerie, the similarities between “his” and “mine.”

There was only one answer I could come up with. Only one answer that made sense.

I had failed God.

Failure sucks. Especially when it comes to believing you failed God. So without second thought, I did what was, to me, the next obvious step: I decided to quit. Quit writing. Quit hoping. Quit believing in the promise. I mean, why bother? I had failed the only One in my life who had never let me down.

I clicked off a text to the friend who had sent me the link and told her my intentions. Her response: get over it.

What? Get over it? Yeah. Right.

I was quick to reply with one simple word: No.

We texted back and forth for a while until the stark reality of what needed to take place next, hit me. I needed to take it to the Lord.

How long does it take, dear diary, for self-pity to turn into anger? A minute? An hour? A day? I was there now. Throwing myself in a full fit at the Lord’s feet. Accusing Him of leading me on. Of giving me false hope. Of letting me down. Yet during the entire time He did nothing but listen. Quietly, lovingly, listen. No condemnations were thrown my way and I didn’t get hit by any lightening bolts (although I probably should have). Instead, gently He lifted me up and held me close.

“Do you think I was surprised by this other book?” He whispered. “Do you think this wasn’t part of My plan? That I can’t handle a mere bump in the road? A bump the enemy put there to deter you?”

What could I say? He was right, you know. It was His plan. Not mine. His. And I had to trust that He knew best.

The evening melted into early morning before I was finally able to fall asleep. I had my tantrum, and God and I had our talk. In the end I realized what the Lord had called me to do…to write…had landed me dead center in the middle of a battleground. On my own, I would never survive. But with God on my side, carefully guiding me through the minefield, it would all work out.

After all, the battle belongs to the Lord—even when it comes to my writing.


“For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms. Therefore put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand.” (Ephesians 6:12-13)

Blog: A Four-Letter Word (Part Two)

(blŏg) n. A weblog; intr.v. blogged, blog•ging, blogs To write entries in, add material to, or maintain a weblog.(1)

Another month, another blog. The struggle continues, but light is at the end of the tunnel. And although blogging is still not part of my comfort zone, at least I’m doing it.

Sorta.

Blogging and writing have had interesting treks in my life. Like I mentioned last month, I never wanted to be a writer so when the Lord asked me to do it, and gave me a specific project, I felt paralyzed.

For a good year after that I fought God’s call then, in the winter of 2001, finally gave in. By that point I was tired, empty, and spent. My spiritual wineskins were cracking and had been void of living water for who knows how long. My mouth and throat seemed caked with sand, and parts of me were dying that I didn’t even know existed.

In 2 Corinthians 12:8-10 Paul said, “But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me. For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities. For when I am weak, then I am strong.”

For in my weakness He is made strong.

Yes, I was scared. Yes, I had concluded I was probably the last person on the face of this earth who should have been called write a nine-book, young adult, sci-fan epic, but let’s face it—when the rubber meets the road, when God’s hand sweeps down in desert places and picks us up, it’s no longer about our wants or desires, our strengths or accomplishments. It’s about Jesus.

For in my weakness He is made strong.

In my darkest moment the living God looked down on my pitiful, crumpled form, lifted me up, then gave me a promise. “I will replace your old wineskins will new ones.”

And He did.

Less than one week after that I was unexpectedly swept into the world of ACFW, and being introduced to such wonderful ladies as Sharen Watson of Words for the Journey, and our own Kathy Kovach and Paula Moldenhauer. These ladies became living water to me. They became my oasis in a parched land. They became my wineskins.

* * * * *

Thank you, Lord, for being there even when I wasn’t, when faith was pointless and doubt was Ruler. It was then you picked up me and placed me by still waters. You restored my soul and gave me new wineskins. You filled me up with Living Water and lead me to a land filled with milk and honey. Thank you, Lord, for all you have done. But especially, forgiving me such wonderful friends. May their lives be blessed.


“‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the LORD, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart. I will be found by you,’ declares the LORD, ‘and will bring you back from captivity.’”
Jeremiah 29:11-14



(1) "blog." The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition. Houghton Mifflin Company, 2004. 14 Jan. 2009.

Blog: A Four-Letter Word (Part One)

(blŏg) n. A weblog; intr.v. blogged, blog•ging, blogs To write entries in, add material to, or maintain a weblog.(1)

Four letters. One word. Who would guess it could instill such fear in me? But it does.
Why? Because I don’t blog.

I’m sure the above statement will ensure a few raised eyebrows, some gasps, maybe even a question or two on how in the world one could call oneself a writer yet not blog. Friends say it’s only a matter of time before I start blogging. Others chuckle knowing that, as an officer of HIS Writers, I am now required to blog on this site. Monthly.

Oh joy.

My fear of blogging is an oddity, considering I’m secretary for ACFW Denver’s HIS Writers and have been since 2006. It’s an oddity because I like taking notes, I like writing, and I LOVE computers and cyberspace. Even keep a journal. So why then do I look at blogging like a trip to the dentist?

Thinking doing a little research on blogs might help me get to the root of this fear, I started with the world’s most “reliable” source—Wikipedia—and moved on from there. This is what I found:

• Online diaries (pre-blogs) became popular shortly after the World Wide Web hit the consumer scene in the early 1990s.

• By the mid 90s, a number of servers offered “homepages” to their subscribers. These homepages allowed consumers to post tidbits about family life, personal interests, etc.

• Then in the late 90s (December 17, 1997, to be exact), Jorn Barger of Robot Wisdom coined the term "weblog" to describe the daily list of links that logged his travels across the web.

• Shortly thereafter, the “we” was dropped and word “blog” evolved.Needless to say, although I found the above facts interesting, my fear of blogging still remained.

Double joy.

Maybe I’m afraid of being transparent. Maybe I’m concerned that, by blogging, I will find out my life isn’t nearly as interesting as I thought it was. Or maybe…just maybe…it’s a deeper, much deeper, issue I have with the Lord.

When God called me to write back in 1998, I didn’t want to. I was not one of those women who had dreamed of writing my whole life. Sure, I enjoyed it. I had written a number of songs and poems over my lifetime—even mentally jotted down a handful of bedtime stories that I read to my children. But writing was something “fun” done during my leisure—not a goal or dream. So it was a shock when “the call” came.

Not only did the Lord call me to write, but three years later He handed me a specific project—an ENORMOUS project—gave me the plotline, along with a thimble full of characters, then said, “Write, Jill, for such a time as this…”

Unqualified and unmotivated, I did what every good Moses archetype would do: I fled.

Running from God is a funny thing. No matter how far you run or how deep you hide or how many “not me, Lord” excuses you come up with, He is always there—patiently waiting when you return home. So after a year of desert walking (and running and hiding), I realized God was not going to let up. He gave me this task regardless how long it would take, and told me I was the one responsible for completing it—I was the one whose hands would be bloodied by the souls of those who missed redemption due to my disobedience. The ones Providence called to read the books I was to write that had not been written.

“Apprentice yourself,” He said.

So in the winter of 2001, I did.

* * * * * * * *

Since there is much more to this story than I have time to share right now, I think I’ll save it for next month. At least then I’ll have something to blog about. And who knows? If I get wordy enough I might even try to stretch the story into a third month. Ha! Wouldn’t that be a hoot? A blog-a-phobic actually blogging! In the meantime, I will leave you with two things I keep on my PC desktop at home: a quote from Elizabeth Eliot and a verse from the Bible. May they give you hope, boost your faith, and help keep your eye on God’s goal as they have done for me.

Love you guys!

“The job has been given to me to do.
Therefore it is a gift.
Therefore it is a privilege.
Therefore it is an offering I may make to God.
Therefore it is to be done gladly, if it is done for Him.
Therefore it is the route to sanctity.
Here, not somewhere else, I may learn God's way.
In this job, not in some other, God looks for faithfulness.
The discipline of this job is, in fact,
the chisel God has chosen to shape me with—
into the image of Christ.” –Elizabeth Eliot


“When you bow down before the Lord, and admit your dependence on Him,
He will lift you up and give you honor.” –James 4:10

(1) "blog." The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition. Houghton Mifflin Company, 2004. 14 Jan. 2009.

(2) Barger, Jorn. “Top 10 Tips for New Bloggers From Original Blogger Jorn Barger.” Wired. 15 Dec. 2007. 14 Jan. 2009.