Guest Posts – Faith & Culture Writers Community

September 27, 2016September 27, 2016

Why I Stay in Christian Publishing | Mick Silva

By Mick Silva

The primary reasons for continuing as long as I have in Christian publishing must be selfish. They are the same reasons I do anything long-term—I like the way it makes me feel.

First, let me say I never intended to stay more than two years at either Focus on the Family or WaterBrook Multnomah. After giving five years apiece in each position, I asked God to work it out to convince my best friend, who’d previously agreed to marry me, that this was a good idea, to take our two young daughters and move from Colorado to Portland in 2010 with no steady job and very little to fall back on.

He did and she did and we did. So there you have it; maybe it was destiny.

I’ll tell you what it wasn’t. It wasn’t my genius or proper living or even prayer. I’ve never been very good at praying. And honestly, the challenge to pursue what “the market” (Christian or otherwise) deemed best never appealed much.

I had a different criteria for my decision to move that, let’s face it, is completely unreasonable. But secondly, reasonably or unreasonably, I believed 10 years was adequate training for launching an editing and writing career on my own.

God affirmed this move in many ways, not the least of which came through amazing friends who supported us. They kept me going, kept me on the rails when I wanted to fly off in rage or forget the higher purpose and go tie one on at Joe’s Tap Heaven.

I’ve been blessed to know editors and authors, readers and writers who aspired to something more than seeking personal fame and fortune. I love that the Christian book industry is about more than personal ambition and charisma, though those attitudes creep in; they’ve definitely taken their toll and still threaten to destroy much of it.

But what we believe about Jesus should make a difference in the way we live. In our professions our faith should inform how we operate and be demonstrated in the way we act in our jobs. We should strive to offer something different to clients—more patience, compassion, grace.

This is why I stay and continue to work with writers of inspirational fiction and memoirs, to live these actions out. Despite all the challenges, God keeps proving He can use broken people and broken systems for greater glory.

I’m like a lot of Christians who fall into that magical thinking that tempts us to believe the lie Jesus was offered in the wilderness: you have a way to take control. I’m NOT in control. My well-being does not depend on how well I do, how I behave, how I choose.

Maybe you’ve thought this too, if you made the ‘right’ choices then you’ll be successful. But when our supposedly right choices don’t make us successful, we can often feel shame and condemnation, the opposite of love. To be blunt, if your life sucks, you’ve got no one to blame but yourself, buddy.

That’s the bondage of legalism, of try-harder Christianity. We need to remember our success or failure isn’t our doing, it’s God’s. As one writer pointed out, this belief is a sort of God-ordained meritocracy, like getting brownie points from God if we do things just right. But it isn’t true. We don’t get happy by doing right. Most of the time we overlook the important fact that struggle and even failure is required for our happiness.

I don’t want to accept that. However, it helps when I EXPECT it, moving forward in the confidence the spirit provides.

People often resist challenges to their sense of security and control (or maybe that’s just me). However, it might be this opposition proves you’re where you need to be, proves you’re making real progress, real success.

Big vision demands that kind of commitment. No promises it’ll always make you happy — there are plenty of safety nets to leave behind. But maybe facing them in the conviction that God’s in control is a better definition of success.

Mick Silva is a former acquisitions editor who spent 10 years in Christian publishing, working with many well-known authors and writers. He is currently self-employed working with writers in all aspects of the process. He blogs at www.micksilva.com and shares his Monday Motivations with hundreds of readers. Mick lives in the Portland area with his wife and two daughters in an old house made of wood and various mosses.

September 13, 2016

Life Without | Sarah Sanderson

Note: Hello, there! We’re excited to re-post this story from Sarah Sanderson’s blog. Sarah recently attended the annual FCWC Essay Presentation at Oregon State Penitentiary. It’s a prison ministry where participants pen down an essay and share it with inmates who are part of the 7th Step Foundation, a program created for prisoners to reduce recidivism for safer communities through mental fitness and transitional services. Click here to read the original on Sarah’s blog.

Sarah’s post is also the first of many we’re hoping to populate the blog with. Currently we are in a season of Sabbath and discernment, but we still wanted to keep in touch with our community. So we’re asking you, our community, to share your experiences at the intersection of faith and culture. We’ll be posting a new story every other Tuesday. If you’re curious or are interested in sharing your story, send an email to Jody Collins, our blog content editor/coordinator/extraordinaire at heyjode70@yahoo.com.

Now onto Sarah’s post! Cheers!

I came to the prison hungry. The club meeting started at 6 p.m., so my writers group had to arrive at the prison for check-in at 5:30 p.m., so I met the carpool at 4:15 p.m., so I left my house at 3:45 p.m., so I scarfed a sandwich at 3:38 p.m. To my well-regulated stomach, this did not qualify as dinner.

As I drove to the carpool location, I ruminated on the dinner situation, and wondered briefly if they would have any food to offer us. “Of course they won’t,” I quickly reproached myself, and brought tears to my own eyes thinking about the loss of such a basic freedom as the ability to offer hospitality.

It turned out, I was wrong. The inmates had wrapped cinnamon rolls in paper towels, and pre-poured cups of water and bright red fruit punch. When a cinnamon roll was offered to me, my first instinct was to decline it (didn’t the prisoner-chefs do horrible things to the food on Orange is the New Black?), but then I remembered that I was, actually, hungry.

“You look like you want to say yes,” the club president, Francisco, laughed, as he watched my eyes linger on the sugar-drizzled dough balls.

I nodded. “Okay, then,” I agreed. It seemed rude not to take it; it was all they had to offer me.

I was wrong, again. The men of the 7th Step Foundation at the Oregon State Penitentiary had much to offer. They offered their respect, listening attentively to our varied essays. They offered generous awards to each of us: “Most Articulate,” “Most Energetic,” “Most Moving.” Most of all, they offered their stories.

I spent most of my time, after the essays were read, talking with two particular prisoners. The first, Dan, was 56 years old. A long, white ponytail hung down his back, and he was missing a front tooth. He had been in prison for 30 years, and had another 27 years to go. He would be 83 when he could be released, but he expected to die before then.

The other prisoner who shared his story with me, David, was 39 years old, and had been in prison for 20 years already. Intelligent eyes flashed behind yellow-tinted glasses as he told me his story. “I did something dumb when I was 19, and I’m never getting out of here.” For killing two men at a shooting range, in response to a perceived threat, David had been sentenced to life without the possibility of parole, or, as he put it simply, “life without.”

Both of these two men, separately from one another, spoke of similar themes. When I asked Dan what was the hardest part of prison life, he immediately responded, “Non-existence. Feeling like I don’t really exist.” David responded to a similar question, “It feels like I’m not really a person at all.” Both men spoke of having few or no meaningful contacts remaining outside the prison walls. Both spoke of keeping to themselves within the prison community. Both spoke of wanting to kill themselves.

Though they had recently eaten (such as it was – apparently a favorite meal was pork tenderloin, “because you can tell what it is”), these men were much, much hungrier than I. They were hungry for human contact. They were hungry for dignity.

They offered me cinnamon rolls and fruit punch; what did I have to offer them? I had spoken of Jesus Christ in my essay, and Dan confided that he trusted in Jesus, too.

“I don’t like to go to the church groups they have here,” he allowed, “but I do my own prayers that I have to do.”

But David was warier. “I’m a Jew,” he informed me, testily.

“That’s okay!” I responded, too brightly. “Jesus was a Jew!”

David’s eyes measured the distance between us. “It’s fine if what you believe about the next life makes you a better person,” he observed, and it sounded like a sentiment he had expressed many times before. “But what about this life? What about a second chance?” He laid his hands open on the table between us. “I was a first-time offender. I never even had a speeding ticket. I know I took those guys’ lives away, and I can never repay that. But how can you send a 19 year old kid away for the rest of his life?”

I believed that Jesus could make a difference to David’s life even if he never got out of prison, but I also felt in that moment that if I tried to convince him of that, it would only sound hollow. How did the Jesus of my middle-class suburban life translate to a maximum-security penitentiary?

“I’m going to pray for you,” I finally told David as our conversation wrapped up.

“That’s fine,” he replied. “Go ahead.”

“So what do you want me to pray?” I pressed.

He seemed genuinely taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“What do you want me to ask God to do for you?”

The response to that question came right away. “Prison reform. I want a chance to get out of here. I want hope.”

“Okay,” I promised, and I knew I was accepting a burden that would not be easily lifted. “I’m going to ask God for that.”

At the end of the meeting, the club president got back on the microphone to remind the men that the club had to pay for the cinnamon rolls, so member donations were appreciated. David had just informed me that the prisoners’ maximum salary, for working 40 hours a week, was $158 a month. I wondered how much the prison charged for the cinnamon rolls and fruit punch. It turned out that these men had offered me a very costly hospitality, indeed.

I drove home and ate a taco, leftovers from my family’s dinner hours earlier. My hunger disappeared. But the hunger in the eyes of the men I met in prison will stay with me for a long, long time.

Sarah Sanderson is working towards an MFA in Creative Writing through Seattle Pacific University. She lives in Gladstone, Oregon, with her husband and four children. Read more at www.sarahlsanderson.com.

January 15, 2016May 17, 2016

Last Year I declared “I am a writer.” This year. . .

By Chara Donahue

Last February, I was certain God had prompted me to join Twitter and start a blog. These are weird things God, I prayed, but whatever you say.

It is a habit of mine to ask God at the end of any conference, “What step of obedience should I take in response to what I have heard?” Normally, it is something a bit more understandable, like remove this thing from your life, help this person, or serve in this area.

Starting the blog fell under service, but in a way that was quite unfamiliar to me. Could my writing hobby really be used to bring glory to my Savior? I have learned to give what He is asking even when the submission falls into curious realms. I would rather be where God is moving, than to reason away what I do not understand. For it is in that space that marvel and wonder abound.

Grabbing a $5 blogger template from Etsy and shortly after joining Twitter, I took those first steps of faith that are often the hardest.

I began following a smattering of people on Twitter, and saw that Kari Patterson, a writer who had been gracious enough to give me some tips, was going to be speaking at the Faith & Culture Writer’s Conference. For Christmas my husband had gifted me a weekend away to work on my creative endeavors, and this appeared to be the perfect opportunity to cash in on his generosity.At this point, I had published a couple of posts and had rejoiced about my first freelance piece being accepted.

I realized, if I was going to go and sit amongst those who spread beauty by putting words to page, it was time to admit I was one of them.

Acknowledging this simple truth freed me to see a new reality; what qualified me to be a writer – is that I write. No lofty author had to bestow the title upon me; I didn’t need to have a book published, and there wasn’t some foreboding checklist taunting with what I must do next.

Writers, write. It isn’t about numbers or publications, but living out a God-ordained purpose for which I was created. I had to ask myself: was I willing to trust?

This venture has eclipsed all expectations, and dwarfed even my wildest anticipations. I have seen God use my words. I have been privileged to meet other writers and read what God has given them to say. I am a regular contributor on four different websites and have guest posted all over the place. A year ago I wasn’t dreaming of this, but God was leading me to it. All I had to do was give Him my yes.

As this new year begins – I am dreaming, setting goals, meeting regularly with others in the Faith and Culture circles, and lifting it all up with open hands in prayer. Whatever is to come, I want to maintain the simplicity of I will trust and obey. Whether it is more freelance work or less, the completion of a book proposal or a manuscript, or a time of rest and inspiration, I want to live in the divine tension of everything God wants for me, and from me, and will settle for nothing less.

The whispers of doubt have not fallen completely silent; I still wonder if God really cares about which social media platforms I choose to utilize. Does He really care if I keep my words to myself, or If I allow others to see them? Does He really care about this expanding facet of my life?

He does.

He wants to be in it all, at all times. And this hobby, He has chosen to make it more. He imparts the gifts we are called to use for blessing others. He helps others find hope in words delivered through my pen by His spirit.

For long before I chose to call myself a writer my God fashioned me a scribe. Would I dare tell the God of the universe, “You can have my hands but not my pen?”

“Writer” Chara Donahue’s work can be found at: Chara Donahue

May 28, 2015August 26, 2015

Stirred and Settled

by Jan Johnson

I’d been looking forward to it for months: the Faith & Culture Conference for writers and other creatives. We met last weekend at Warner Pacific College, on the edge of Mt. Tabor in Portland, Oregon.

Brent and I actually flew out to Portland a week early to visit our two sons, their wives and our grandson, all of whom have relocated to the Pacific Northwest in the last year. Good times!

The whole region is gorgeous, hills bursting with plant life including enormous Christmas trees and tons of flowers. The lakes and rivers were full of water, which almost seems weird to a Texan whose state has been in drought mode for, what, four or five years?

The city of Portland thrums with an exuberant, youthful vibe. Artfully dressed people in all their picturesque hipness were everywhere. (Sometimes a middle-aged small-town grandma needed to go look at a blank wall for a minute. I just couldn’t keep up, you know?)
But the pre-conference retreat, and the conference itself… whoa. Fabulous times of worship. We drank deep from a fountain of pure joy. Honest conversations, learning over and over that “I’m not the only one!” Making new friends, some of whose convictions, values or doctrinal beliefs differ from mine.

On the flight home to Dallas I spent some time considering the “Big Takeaway” — What had God said to me overall about my life as a writer and especially as a believer?

I’m glad you asked.

Most importantly, I heard the warning not to mistake my own tradition, paradigm or interpretation for biblically sound doctrine. My belief could be misinformed. My doctrinal position could actually be (gasp!) wrong. Or at least a matter of individual conscience.

On the other hand, depending on the topic and context, my particular belief or conviction could be right. While it’s certainly healthy to question old traditions, it’s equally healthy to question specific ideas generated in a youthful, freestyle, “anti-tradition” paradigm.

After all, we wouldn’t want to throw out the nuggets of holy truth along with the gravel of tradition and personal preference. As Peter points out in 2 Peter 1:20-21, “But know this first of all, that no prophecy of Scripture is a matter of one’s own interpretation, for no prophecy was ever made by an act of human will, but men moved by the Holy Spirit spoke from God.”

Either way, pursuing doctrinal correctness is not enough. I must also make sure my heart, my attitude, are right. I must seek my brothers’ and sisters’ highest good, with humility and love and respect for their sincerity.

I learned tons of stuff about writing, too, but I won’t burden my longsuffering readers with those concepts. Besides, marvelous bits of wisdom kept coming at me… so fast that too many escaped before I could jot them down. So my notebook is a little disjointed.

I’ll sign off for now, with loving greetings from the heart of Texas, y’all.

Thanks for reading,
Jan

Connect with Jan:

Website

May 26, 2015July 16, 2015

When Cracks Show us the Glory of God

by Ashley Hales

Shivering in this northwesterly wind, I sit on the edge of dirt and pavement: this juxtaposition between organic and man-made. This concrete worn and utilitarian next to the unadorned simplicity – almost vulgarity – of the dirt. We are stuff just as these. Stones pulverized and fashioned into meaning. Organic material who hide behind makeup and jewelry and our bios. But we’re all just dust and ashes. All here to serve a God so much bigger and more incomprehensible than ourselves. A God who hung the stars in galaxies we haven’t yet discovered; a God who created atoms and molecules and things we can’t comprehend. For what? For the joy of it.

For delight. (That’s what Henry James taught me – the delight in language, in the glory of the small pieces forming intricate beings called sentences that curl and twist and in which we live and move and have our being).

That there is something about glory that fills and moves spaces; that it is self-assured in its perfection because it is perfection that comes from humility, from sacrifice.

For a Kingdom that breaks through these cracks in the sidewalk or speaks to me out of the dirt, is a Kingdom that is not about utility. It is a Kingdom that glories and dignifies the small, that notices the simple – that says a hair or a sparrow are currency in this Kingdom.

In college there was a singer-songwriter who sang a song based on Isaiah 55, “You who have no money, come buy and eat” and it made no sense to me then. This Kingdom where glory comes in brokenness, where glory breaks in through the stuff of dirt and sidewalks, where glory is a free meal.– where glory fills the ordinary with good things – this, this is where I want to live.

It is only here, in this Kingdom of concrete and dirt, where I am fully free. In this moment there is life, life more abundant and full and overflowing than my degrees or accomplishments. And it comes inching towards me as an offering while the thoughts about all those people who I am responsible for, for the pain and heartaches and miscommunications come racing in. But I’ve been given this moment.

It, too, is an offering of dirt and concrete. And it, too, is delight.

Connect with Ashley Hales:

Website | Twitter

May 23, 2015July 16, 2015

What it Looks Like to Find Home (yet again)

by Ashley Hales

We almost moved to Portland in 2009 to do an apprenticeship with a church. We fell in love. We wanted to be downtown people. We wanted to walk on lazy Saturday mornings with a cup of hand-crafted coffee and browse in Powell’s. We ached for urbanism, books, meaning, and craft beers. We longed for the coming together of pubs and stories; of the gospel and hipsters; of beauty and brokenness. And then it turned to ashes. We didn’t move. And we felt like death. Six years later, this last weekend, I returned to Portland and even in the span of three days and three nights, I am resurrected.

I am more fully alive, more fully myself, more a member of a tribe than I dreamt possible. There is a quiet back and forth between the prophetic fire I feel stretching for release inside of me and the long, slow soul-digging necessary to make a life of writing work. And it all is good work. Because now I believe I have a community of soul friends; where, hunched over drinks around a table, even though we come from different backgrounds and theological viewpoints, we are home. There, around the table, we are most fully ourselves, most fully alive. Because home was never about being right. Home is belonging. Home is where we hash out who we are and what we believe; but surrounding that process, is a womb of protection. Home is where we can be messy, scared, broken, angry. And a true home can hold us as we thrash about as we are birthed into ourselves.

I found a little slice of home there in the drizzly northwestern rain. I found a home by myself, sandwiched between earth and concrete, feeling as much a part of one as the other. I found home in a Kingdom that is wide and deep and long and a breath of air. I found home in words that filled me, where I marveled at beauty and truth wrapped around one another like lovers. I found home in the eyes of my friends, when I could listen to their hurt, to their cries of lament from systemic oppression; or where I could weep at the violence done to them because they were sacrifices to a system. These are systems based on fear or control, where the image of God becomes something to squelch and squash, like my toddler squishes Play-Doh back into its plastic tin. I found home in the words of meandering faith journeys, where we hold holy space open for each other. I found home in my tears. Portland birthed me. Me. Not in my writerly garb, but just me.

I have some resolutions of sorts, some lessons to take away and tape up to my bathroom mirror, to remind myself what I will do: I will dig gently. But I will dig. I will tell myself the truth of the middle day. That there is dusk and there is dawn and at these threshold moments we are the verge of beholding glory. I will see. I will pause, slow down and not rush to resolution. My first duty is to see. I will proclaim truth. I will point others to glory. And, I will show them home.

This was Ashley’s first time attending the Faith & Culture Writers Conference. She blogs at: Website

May 12, 2015

It’s about changing lives by sharing our stories.

By Liz von Ehrenkrook

“I love how much energy you have!”

I laughed, “This isn’t typical of me, I’m not usually excited about being social; but being with My People, I can’t really help myself.”

This past weekend I had the opportunity to attend the Faith & Culture Writer’s Conference in Portland.

If you’re a writer, there is nothing more fulfilling than being in a room full of writers. These are the people who get you.

These are the people who know it’s a stretch to be talking for two days straight and don’t expect you to perform.

These are the people you can meet and sit in silence with and feel known.

I met online friends face-to-face, and made new friends who instantly felt like old friends. One friend spent the weekend in our guest bedroom and I gifted her a quiet retreat. She helped me discover how my husband’s and my decision to remain childfree gives us the opportunity to serve My People who have kiddos by offering a library-esque environment to escape to!

My heart is full, and my brain is processing. I was encouraged and challenged and inspired; it was like willingly drinking from a firehose and I. am. drenched.

The same resounding message bled from every kind of writer; those who are just starting blogs and learning how to tweet to those who have multiple books published and could hire someone to tweet for them.

“Your voice is unique. Be yourself. Your story matters.”

It doesn’t matter where you’re at in your writing, we all fall victim to comparison and self-doubt. We are all insecure, questioning our words and worrying nobody will read them.

- Emily Freeman -

I entered the writing contest and didn’t win. The winners were announced in the morning of the second day and I spent the afternoon volleying between feelings of joyful anxiety – I couldn’t wait to just get home and write! – and wondering why I wasn’t chosen.

I met with an editor who said the words, “I’m interested. This is what I’m looking for. I want to read this book.” I texted my writing coach the news, I called my husband. My stomach flip-flopped and I wanted to write! I was so excited I forgot about the contest until a fellow blogger emerged from her agent/editor meetings with practically a book deal.

The why not me cycle began again. I recognized she had been working really hard and came to Portland with a full manuscript in hand while I am only just beginning because of all the scrapping and re-writing and wading in the kind of memories that cause you stop and take big, deep breaths. But she is My People and her story is weaved in my own, so I will advocate without hesitation for everyone I know to read her book when it’s released.

It’s such a frustrating place to live in, being so at home among other writers, feeling loved and known while also experiencing the worst pangs of jealousy because they’re further along in their book journeys. But I know I’m not living there alone; every single one of us talked about entertaining the same emotions. We all want it to happen for each other but we also really want it to happen for ourselves.

- Karen Zacharias - (Karen Zacharias Spear)

My People will be there for me when I get a book deal, but they’ll also wonder when it’ll be their turn. It’s the nature of being a writer who deeply desires their words to be read and remembered, because all of our words matter greatly.

It’s not about money or fame, it’s about changing lives by sharing our stories.

I will tell stories. I will be myself.
I will practice writing words I can’t take back.
– Emily Freeman

I’ll no doubt be recalling things I’ve learned this weekend in future posts. I’ve spent the majority of my time since the conference writing through a fog of sinus-infected medicine head.

And, you guys, the first completed chapter of my book sounds amazing! Of course, I’ll need to re-read it when I’m not in a drug-induced haze and get back to you on the reality of that statement.

You kind of have to be a little bit crazy to call writing your thing, I think.
– Emily Freeman

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Learn more about Liz von Ehrenkrook at her website: Liz von Ehrenkrook

May 4, 2015May 4, 2015

Letting go of fear and saying, “I am a Writer”

By Leanne Sype

There’s something I haven’t told you because I’ve been fearful. I thought I was being humble. But this past weekend I attended the 2015 Faith and Culture Writer’s Conference, which turned into two-day therapy-retreat where I cried a lot and got really depressed before I became inspired. I was hindered to inspiration because I was blocked by truth.

I sat in a guided writing experience with Micah J. Murray, during the new, “Breathing Space: A Mini Retreat” that was added to the conference this year. Micah called us out our snippy inner-gremlins and fought against them by writing a fan letter to ourselves. I wasn’t going to read mine out loud because my gremlins told me that everyone else’s letter was way better, that I would be self-centered if I volunteered, and that everyone would think mine was stupid. I punched my gremlins in the face by volunteering to read mine.

I read my letter and I was okay; people liked it. Micah asked me to read it again. The second time I read it, I wasn’t okay. I began to cry and could barely get through the dang thing without snotting all over it. I got mad(ish) at Micah, “Why did you make me read this again? Look at what you made me do!” He had called me to a place of public vulnerability–then asked if the group could pray for me. He asked the sweet girl next to me, Michelle, to lay a hand on me and pray. And pray she did, so beautifully and tearfully. This was a powerful moment that I didn’t understand in the moment.

In this same class, a gentleman, Sovann Penn (@SovannPenn), read his letter. He said to himself, “You have been mistaking fear for humility far too long… you have friends who are awesome and believe in you.” This stuck with me the rest of the day the same way a rock gets stuck inside your shoe.

That night in the main session, author Emily Freeman said, “I want to write like a hostess. A hostess doesn’t leave her guests to go call all the people who RSVP’ed “no” to find out why the didn’t come and why they don’t like her. That’s crazy. I want to write like a hostess, not a crazy person.” This put another rock in my shoe, and I went home feeling depressed, annoyed, and uncertain if I would be back the next day. I snuggled up to my husband and blubbered all over him with no words to express what was wrong with me.

I woke up the next morning with the very clear voice of the Holy Spirit:

“You’ve been mistaking fear for humility; you’re missing out on the full experience of the gift you’ve been given and the ministry in which you have been invited to participate. You are scared of people rejecting you, mocking you, and being angry with you, yet in all the things I’ve given you to write never once have you experienced what you fear. Not even in your most public confessions of sin. You are a lovely hostess with many guests I’ve brought to you because they can hear you; your translation from the Kingdom to the guests is good! But you leave them so you can wait by the phone for the “no” RSVP’s to call. They aren’t calling… and you’re missing the party! You have faithful friends, family, and even strangers who believe in you, but most importantly I believe in you. I have work for you if you’re willing; the fruit will be good and beautiful if you will trust Me.”

Here’s what I want to tell you:

I’ve spent the last 14 years pouring into and editing the stories of others, defining myself as an editor and merely dabbling in my craft as a “wet-noodle” writer. I confess that while I adore, honor, and value other people’s stories, I’ve been using editing as a way to avoid the true work God has for me–writing. I have been fearful of stepping into the public arena of vulnerability, giving power to voices of the gremlins and cloaking my fear in humility so as to justify my place behind the scenes (which, incidentally, is where an editor works. How convenient.)

Yes, some of my recent writings have been more confessional and vulnerable, evidence of God’s effort in coaxing me out into the arena, but I can tell you they were published in trembling obedience and reluctant submission.

I surrender with humble declaration that I am writer. I write creative non-fiction about real-life, my story, and God’s unwavering persistence to be the anchor for both. I translate through written words what I hear, see, and feel from God so I can better understand the purpose he has for me, how I can live that purpose for His glory, and how I can invite others to discover the same for their lives. My prayer always is that through my experiences, you find yourself encouraged, inspired, and invited into a Kingdom that is safe and welcoming, and promises purposeful life no matter how broken you are. You are loved unconditionally. And so am I.

God gave me my first assignment in January– a children’s book called The Hungry Garden. It’s an alphabet book that explores the ordinary to extraordinary food that gardens grow and why these foods are so exciting. It comes with a 26-recipe “snack book” that parents and children can use in their kitchen to be creative with food. I have completed the first draft of the main manuscript, and I am currently developing and testing the recipes.

I never wanted to write a book, let alone a children’s book . . . let alone a children’s book about food. I didn’t feel qualified. But as I have been following His lead on this project, it’s becoming more clear that as a recovering anorexic patient, I understand the fear of food intimately. I know what it feels like to see food in front of me that looks scary, smells weird, and would certainly be the worst thing ever if I ate it. As a child of God living with an eating disorder, I can relate to children in a way others cannot. Only God can orchestrate such a unique connection.

I look forward to sharing with you the nutty things that have happened since beginning this process, along with the mysteries and surprises I encounter as I journey forward. I promise not to hold back anymore! I am joining the party and will step into the arena as my name is called.

And those grumpy gremlins? Well, they aren’t invited.

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Leanne Sype was a speaker at the 2015 Faith & Culture Writers Conference. She IS a also a writer, whose work can be found at Leanne Sype website

April 27, 2015

A challenging, bridge-building weekend

By Kara Chupp

Last night we watched the Count of Monte Cristo.

My friend Anne-Marie just finished the book and throughout she noted all the ways the movie does not match, which were vaguely familiar from the last-long-time-ago that I read it.
And she said all the names with perfect French pronunciation which made her version sound way more beautiful.

But I was tired.
And kind of enjoyed that Mondego is clearly the bad guy. No redeeming qualities there.
And Dantes gets to marry Mercedes– who only marries Mondego because she is expecting Dantes’ child and thinks he is dead.
And Dantes’ sidekick feels like a character out of Princess Bride.
And at the end Dantes kills Mondego after first offering him mercy, but Mondego is clearly SO bad that you’re relieved.

But, as we were discussing afterwards, there is a depth in the book, that is lost in the movie.
There are fewer consequences.
Less realization and redemption.
A true loss that results from choosing simplicity over complexity.
Beauty and power are diminished in the attempt to, as Ashley Larkin would say, put a “pretty bow on pain.”

This was entirely missing–

“…pray now and then for a man who, like Satan, believed himself for an instant to be equal to God, but who realized in all humility that supreme power and wisdom are in the hands of God alone…Until the day when God shall deign to reveal the future to man, all human wisdom is summed up in these two words,– Wait and hope.” ~Dumas

This weekend I went to the The Faith & Culture Writers Conference. It was a place of complexity for me.

A place of realization and redemption.
An experience that was not always comfortable, but that was beautiful.

On Friday, in one writing session, Seth Haines asked us to write down several writers we admire and then to share what is it about their voice that draws us to them.
I wrote down several, but one of mine was Lore Ferguson.

And it’s because I see her as a bridge builder.
I am in a writing group with her and I know what she believes.
She doesn’t waiver on the convictions that God cements in her heart through His Word and the Holy Spirit, but she engages in dialogue and friendship and relationship with those who may be on the other side of the precipice.

And this weekend was one of bridge-building for me.

My favorite session was one with Terry Glaspey where he shared about “writing that endures” and I was struck by how many of his descriptors also depict relationships that endure…

Writing that endures:

— reveals the writer to be a fellow struggler. We are drawn to those who show that they struggle alongside us.
— takes a risk.
— has the power of empathy. It has the ability to feel what others feel.
— loves its characters as God loves them. Without that love, they will just be chess pieces. If they are loved, they will breathe.
— connects with people’s needs, both practical and perceived.
— focuses on questions that are relevant to every person of every age.
— may not be immediately recognized.
— is validated by simply obedience in responding to God’s call.

As I’ve invited other writers to the conference in the past, I’ve added the qualifier-disclaimer–

“Just know it’s a little edgy. Their faith umbrella is a big one.”

In part, those words came from a place of fear.
Fear of a diluted gospel.
Fear of fingers being pried open on issues that I want to hold tightly.

But it also came from just that “awkward middle school fear” that rises when you’re not sure which lunch table you’re going to sit at or whether or not you’re going to be invited to the slumber party.

I sat next to a fellow writer in one of the sessions who I really enjoyed. I just appreciated talking with her and felt a sense of connection. As she shared about her life and experiences, I started caring about her. And then after the conference I went and read some of her writing and found that on many issues–we very much disagree.

But instead of feeling anxious, I felt hopeful.
Because a bridge to dialogue was built and without relationship, without love, even Truth can be a clanging gong, a noisy symbol.

And as Kari Patterson shared, “We tell the truth for a redemptive purpose.”
And as Terry Glaspey mentioned, “The story is the way we argue heart to heart.”
And as Emily Freeman encouraged, “Art that leaves an impression is not the bossy kind.”
And as Seth Haines reminded, “Writing changes the hearts and minds of the people.”
Because as Ray Family proclaimed–

“The artist is the window washer…”

The window washer, in God’s grace and power, is the one who clears away the mud that mars our vision– the pre-conceived notions, the stereotypes, the misunderstandings, that block us from really seeing one another and really communicating our message– and His message.

When “In Christ Alone” echoed off the walls, filling the room with hundreds of voices, all flowing from individuals made in the likeness, and in the love, of our Heavenly Father, the words were grounding and solid.

For me, this weekend at the Faith & Culture Writer’s Conference was full of God’s kindness and His good gifts. Within the first few minutes on Friday, He brought along a kindred spirit.

There was a whole lot of culture— honing writing skills, learning from others, learning about others, appreciating powerful words and art and music. It wasn’t the simplistic movie Monte Cristo, it was the novel, full of complexity and complication and recognized layers. Not easy for me to box up with a bow, but so very beautiful.

There was also much faith— risk taken, bridges built, trust established and Christ proclaimed as Lord and Savior.

I hadn’t planned to share this, but I want to.
The article I submitted to the conference writing contest was chosen as the Non-fiction winner. It was not something I’d expected and I sent it in watermarked with doubt. While I don’t want to need outside validation when it comes to writing, God knows me and that sometimes I do need some dew on the fleece. It was such an over and above gift from Him. I’ll tell you why…

Emily Freeman nudged us to write from our Tuesdays. Our normal days. The ones that are filled with our normal people and our humdrum dailies– the mounds of laundry, overflowing kitchen trash bags, and counters blobbed with toothpaste.

I went to the conference with a nagging sense of– I am a Tuesday.
And most of these people are Friday nights.

And my essay was a Tuesday piece.
Because I am often a Tuesday writer.

Winning the writing contest was a welcoming of my Tuesday-ness.
An encouraging hug from a community that I wasn’t sure would-could embrace who I am as a writer.
And really, it was just a reminder that we all have (and are) Tuesdays.

As it is with writing that endures, we are all revealed to be fellow strugglers, breathing characters loved by God, who wrestle with questions that are relevant to all, as we meet the needs of others and strive for empathy. Our identity and validation is in relationship with Christ and in the simple obedience of responding to God’s call.

I am so thankful.
And Lord willing, I will be there next year in all my Tuesday attire.

Thank you to all who dreamed, planned, and brought the conference to fruition and thank you for joining me in this space…

P.S. I didn’t quote one of my favorite speakers– Tony Kriz. I was so caught up in his storytelling that I didn’t take any notes. I’m not sure how to say this poetically, so I’m just going to say it. I knew Tony back in college, when he didn’t have a beard. But we never really had a friendship. In fact, to me, it felt a bit more like a– disconnectship. It has been 18 years since then and God has changed and grown us both. I didn’t know (or take the time to understand) who he is now. In fact, I made assumptions at a distance through a muddy window. But, hearing from him was one of my favorite parts of the weekend. A bridge was built. He had to leave early and suddenly because of a family emergency and I am praying (and will be) that he and his family will sense God’s deep love surrounding them. I was so thankful to hear his story and I am still picturing the Easter candles trickling down from the mountain into the little Albanian villages below.

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Kara Chupp won the non-fiction category of the Faith & Culture Writing Contest sponsored by the 2015 Faith & Culture Writers conference. Find her work at: Kara Chupp

April 19, 2015April 27, 2015

Reflecting on Blank to Beautiful

By Dawn Klinge

And I am sure of this, that he who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ. -Philippians 1:6

Facing the computer, blank screen in front of me, silently, I will the words to come forth. Nothing happens until my fingers hit the keyboard. Even then, with that first tap, tap, on the keys, I have little idea of where these words are going. I only know that I want to create something beautiful. I must start somewhere. God help me, I pray.

The words sound clumsy. They aren’t beautiful. Keep going, He says. I look around at other pages, reading other people’s words. They’re beautiful. I want to write like them. I delete my words, ashamed.

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Facing the cross, crucified Jesus in front of me, silently, I will the words to come forth. I’m sorry, I say. Please forgive me. Even then, with that first heartfelt prayer, I have little idea where this life is going. I only know that he’s beautiful and I love him. He’s on that cross because of me, because he loves me. I must start somewhere. God help me, I pray.

I’m a mess. I keep doing things to hurt the One I love. Keep going, He says. I look around at other people’s lives. I think they’re beautiful. I want to be like them. I take my eyes off Jesus, ashamed.

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I start again. Tap, tap, tap on the keyboard, the words coming faster now. God help me, I pray. I’m scared but I keep going. I don’t know if I have anything to say that people will want to read. I want them to think my words are beautiful. He helps me anyway. My words are rough, but I put them out there for others to read. And then I want to take them back. I want to hide. But they’re out there now, and I can’t take them back. My words are still not beautiful, but I ask God to use them anyway.

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I’m still a mess, but I turn my eyes back to Jesus. He’s no longer on the cross. Now he lives and I have hope. I still sin against the One I love, but God sees me as beautiful, because of what Jesus did for me. I keep going. I want others to see the beauty of God in my life. I feel their eyes on me as I stumble. I want to hide. But I pray that God will use me anyway.

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I continue to face the computer. Tap, tap, words fill up the screen. God help me, I pray, because I want my words to point to Him, who’s beautiful in every way. Keep going, he says.

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I continue to face the cross. My beautiful Jesus reminds me that I don’t need to hide. When I stumble, I just remember that he already took care of it. I want others to see my Savior. He tells me to keep going, and I continue to ask for his help. I see a little more clearly where my life is going now. One day, my rough draft will be done, and it will be beautiful, because the author and finisher of my faith will use it for his glory.

Looking unto Jesus the author and finisher of our faith; who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is set down at the right hand of the throne of God. -Hebrews 12:2

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Dawn Klinge attended the 2015 Faith & Culture Writers Conference. This essay was inspired by the theme of the conference, Rough Draft: From Blank to Beautiful. Find Dawn’s work at Dawn Klinge.