Dragons

“Here be dragons,” were the familiar words written by the early cartographers who knew not what lay beyond the lines they’d drawn on the map. It was the unknown, a place probably full of dangers of one kind or another. The words were a warning, I suppose, or at least a way to name the fear.

Although the world is well-drawn these days, fear of the unknown still abounds. The dangers are no longer geographical so much as professional, relational, emotional, or psychological. Just like years ago, most people prefer dwelling in the familiar, in the safe. Who needs dragons, they ask, and cease from adventures of any kind.

I began an adventure several years ago, and there have been moments when I’ve wanted to quit, return to the world I’ve known, but I didn’t. I continued, one step at a time, sometimes out of stubbornness as much as courage. I set out to write a book, something countless people think about doing. I had no idea where the adventure would lead, and I’ve encountered more dragons than I knew existed. “This is no good. Who are you to think you could write anything someone else would want to read?” they roared. The flames of comparison and judging my work were as hot as any from a mythological beast.

And yet . . .

On Friday, I held in my hands the advanced copy of my novel, Burning Faith. Holding it was like holding a child. I thought the moment would push all dragons aside, but they returned in force. My work was about to leave the safety of my arms and venture beyond my well-drawn world. I cannot protect it from what lies beyond my arms. There will be people who like it, hate it, and not care a thing about it. Some will think I have talent, others, none at all. Such is the price for writing a book, or doing anything that’s uncertain. If it were not so, everyone would write a book . . . take a new job, try out for a play, have an art show.

There are dragons everywhere. I suppose, the point is to recognize them as signs you’re on an adventure and celebrate the courage it took to go beyond the lines on the map.

(Burning Faith is a story about a church that burns on Christmas and how people find their faith without a building. It will be available through Amazon on December 1.)

All Saints' Day 2022: Seasons

To everything there is a season . . .

The familiar words are easy to hear when walking under a canopy of fall leaves, but more difficult when surrounded by other changing seasons. A sudden job change, a bad doctor’s prognosis, or the end of a relationship are much harder to celebrate than colorful leaves. One of the most difficult changes is the loss of a loved one. The words from Ecclesiastes can sound dismissive when used to explain the loss of those we love, the equivalent of a spiritual “Oh well,” but All Saints Day demands we look at the losses in our lives and see them with some spiritual understanding.

One of the ways I do this is to write the name of every person I’ve loved who has died. With each name, I pause and picture the person, remember specific things about him or her – the sound of their laugh, the way they moved - then remember moments we shared and what I loved most.

Although it takes time, my list of losses transforms into a list of gifts. I find myself thinking not of who I lost but who I was given. It also points me to those I still have, and reminds me of the time I have left. People, places, and things take on sacred meaning, which, of course, is how God wants it, and I leave All Saints Day grateful for those I’ve known and determined to appreciate the ones I still have.

Just

One of the important things when you are a writer is to ask for feedback. It’s easier to ask for than receive, but a trusted friend can show you things to which you are blind. That was the case recently. The final reader of my novel’s draft showed me how often I use the word “just.” He was just a parish priest … it was just something he felt he should say… the examples seemed endless, and I’ve been thinking about the word ever since.

“Just” is a filler, a way to put something into a sentence to downplay whatever it is describing. It reveals a timidity of heart. Rather than say something boldly, instead of saying some thing or some one is important, “just” keeps us from getting carried away and saying what we really mean.

While it will be a hard habit to break, the effort is worth it. I want to speak boldly and not discount the people who, and moments that, matter.

It wasn’t just a conversation with my son, it was a conversation that will change things forever.

It’s not just a (stream, wave, or beautiful sunset), it’s a reminder that we live in an incredible world filled with beauty.

She wasn’t just a teacher, she was a person who devoted her life to touching the lives of others.

It’s not just a book, it’s a song of a soul sung for others who might be stirred by its melody.

Stripping away the clutter of our language and the pillows surrounding our tender hearts reveals who we are and what we care about. No wonder so few do it.

Just a thought.