5 Things Financial Struggle Taught Me (Thus Far)

I’m not poor. Low income, I guess. Ever since I met Laura, the single, Mexican mom who was raising her four children on $400 bucks a month, I’ve known I wasn’t poor. I’ve even climbed my way above the Canadian poverty line, now that i’m a pill-maker by trade (the legal kind).

But I’ve struggled lately–partially because I still don’t make a lot of money, and partially because I dream big and publish novels, and partially because I’ve tried to look like I’m not struggling. Well, time to be honest. For the last six to nine months I’ve barely gotten by. Its one of at least four spells of financial hardship I’ve lived through–others included college and unemployment–and now that they’re passed I look back on them with a measure of pride.

Financial struggle is a hard taskmaster, but it does impart valuable lessons. Here are 5:

Never Give Up. I’ve often reminded myself that though things may not be comfortable, I will not starve. I may lose my job, my apartment, or my car, but I will live through it, and I will come through it stronger. One day, this will be a good story, so don’t give up.

Be grateful. Ingratitude will only dig the hole deeper. HECK YES! I dug my financial hole in part because I was materialistic, unsatisfied with the many good things i had. I’ve learned much about gratitude in the last six months, but I have a long way to go.

Being resourceful is like being a hunter, artist, and a mathematician at the same time. Fellow Mennonites may have the same pastime of cruising the grocery store, hunting for those pink ‘30% off’ stickers. This is how I bring home meat for my family. I hunt it!

I love the show Masterchef. In that show, the contestants are often given a ‘mystery box’ full of food items, and told to cook a gourmet meal with it. That’s a bit like shopping on a shoestring. Here are my odd items of meat and (eureka!) 30% off mixed greens. What healthful, tasty dish can I make from it? My meals are sometimes simple, but I’m proud of the healthy lifestyle my sister and I maintain on a tight budget.

It’s like being an urban survivalist, in a way, and it’s something to be proud of.

Ask yourself, “What can I do right now to help myself?” I lost my job in spring 2012 under bad circumstances. My confidence suffered to the point that when I tried to revamp my resume, I cried to my Mom “There’s nothing I’m good at.” And because she’s my Mom, she was able to list things off. Looking for work slammed my wavering self esteem over and over again. But, as my bank account dwindled, I forced myself to do something every day to find a job. Meanwhile, to pay the bills, I posted on Facebook that I was looking for odd jobs. I painted a lot that spring. I mowed grass. I took on casual work as a gardener. Every week I scraped together the money to pay my bills.

In my most recent financial hardship, I drew on this experience when I was low and desperate. I’d ask myself: “What can I do right now to help myself?” This translated to selling things on Varage Sale (any clothes I didn’t need, books I wanted to keep but I knew would sell, and even Christmas presents I didn’t like…sorry!), working overtime, and, once again, doing odd jobs.

Once again, by God’s grace and hard work, the bills are paid.

You can still do great things. Dreaming big can be expensive, but it needn’t be. I published Sons of Earth for about $600 bucks, for instance. I ran my first three 5K races in $80 dollar shoes, and cheap athletic gear.

In my city, Library memberships are free. Thrift stores are packed with cheap books. You can get free podcasts on whatever topic you want. This means you can get an informal, self-directed education for almost nothing. Sure, you don’t get a certificate on your wall, but you can study whatever your passions are and become a better read, better spoken, productive citizen without the approval of so-called experts.

You can give up a couple hours a week to volunteer with a church or organization, babysit your little cousins or neighbour kids, or visit the elderly. In doing so, you can leave a lasting impact on your town.

In the last financial struggle, it was impressed on me that this was a lesson, and I needed to learn. If I didn’t learn, this would keep happening, and happening, and happening. I needed to acknowledge my greed and materialism and swap it for gratitude. I needed to stop taking the easy way out, to work hard, and to be resourceful.

Above all, try not to worry. It’s not helpful.

The Bible says, “Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?” (Matthew 6:25-27, New International Version)

My Story of Doubt

I was born to Christian parents. I went to the same church for the first twenty-three years of my life. It’s natural that I’d follow in their footsteps. I believed from a young age. As a young teen, I began reading the Bible for myself, and spending time in prayer. Bolstered by my parent’s faith, I began my own relationship with God. I saw rapid change in my life, as I learned to listen to and obey God.

I was confident in the validity of my faith. As part of my home-school studies, I loved to study ‘proofs’ of God’s existence, especially materials that spoke out against the theory of Evolution. Truthfully, I thought that everyone from the scientists to the ‘poor public school kids’ who believed in Evolution were deluded, maybe stupid.

At age twenty, I enrolled in a local conservative Bible college. In my second year, during a course called ‘Faith and Science,’ I read a book called The Lost World of Genesis One, which espoused the view that as 21st century, scientific minded people, we couldn’t read Genesis one literally, as the Hebrews would have. The creation story was actually a response to the Babylonian creation myth, and didn’t truly mean a literal seven days of creation.

It was frightfully logical. I dove into study, and realized that whether I believed in the young earth creationism of my youth, or that the earth evolved under God’s direction, I could find equally convincing evidence for my ideas.

Was The Lost World correct? And if so, what else couldn’t be read literally?

My protective bubble shattered. I was shattered, and very angry. I began to view knowledge with cynicism, and discount whatever people said about the Bible or God. After all, however convincing, there was probably an equally good argument against it. They might be lying. I wanted to talk about my doubts, but when I did I’d only become angry and cry.

One day a professor suggested that God sometimes causes evil to accomplish his purposes. Causes evil? Didn’t that make him evil? I lay in bed that night, broken and in tears. What would I do? Could I believe in anything anymore?

It’s occurred to me that this is the part where I’m supposed to say, “And so I became an atheist.” Many stories do end like that: “I had questions, and no one could give me convincing evidence, so I ceased to believe.” I sympathize, but that’s not how it ended for me.

Lying in my tears and snot, I asked myself, “Do I believe that God is good?”

“Yes. I do believe that God is good.”

I fell asleep.

My questions weren’t resolved. In fact, on the question of Creation, I simply had to suspend judgment. I had no more energy to expend on it. Is God good? This has been resolved through time.

I’ve seen his faithfulness in the midst of a horrible job and the depression that resulted. I saw his provision when I lost that job and went without a job for over two months. I managed to find enough money to pay all my bills–actually, partially because of an injury while doing casual work. I see how he’s orchestrated my life, brought good from bad events, and led me to a fulfilling purpose to drive me from day to day.

But mostly, I experience his love, forgiveness, friendship and fatherly guidance on a daily basis.

Can I argue from philosophy? Certainly. I still love to study how to defend my faith. I can tell you the logical reasons why I need a god in my life, how without God neither I nor you have inherent value, how without God we must base our lives on the ‘firm foundation of unyielding despair’ (Bertrand Russell).

Does that cement my faith? No.

It is the simultaneously tenuous and bulletproof foundation of God’s love in my life that I build upon. My story cannot be proved, nor disproved. It is only mine. But I hope it will encourage you to probe your own ideas, and seek a firm foundation.

Why I Gave Up the Violin

I used to get stuck in doors when I played Call of Duty.  Those controllers were the death of me hundreds and hundreds of times, and when it wasn’t that I was getting lost on the maps, even the small ones.  I don’t get stuck in doors anymore, but I’ve yet to master the game.  I never will.

I simply don’t have the time.

It’s unfortunate for impatient souls like me, but mastery of anything–including fake combat with a plastic controller–takes… time.  Lots of it.  That’s why I quit playing the violin.

I began playing the violin when I was eleven after I won a violin in an auction.  I’d always wanted to play, and my chance finally came.  I loved it.  But it’s so dang hard to play, and after years of lessons I was no master.  I was tired of being embarrassed by my lack of skill.  I was an adult now.  I had a full time job, little time to practise, and no money for lessons (and no one in my apartment block wanted to listen to me screech).  Writing had become my passion.  So I played one last recital, and I haven’t even opened the case since.

That’s also why I don’t play hockey, or paint, or draw anymore.  I hate being bad, and I’ve no time to be good.

But I can’t always quit things I’m bad at, can I?  Case in point: singing in the church choir.

Swearing at the Choir

It doesn’t sound difficult.  You show up and sing.  But as singers, we are considered leaders and we are held to a high standard in how we live and relate to Jesus.  This accountability is excellent.  But I’ve come face to face with reality in the past few days.  I’m a the good Christian nice girl. I’m kind of a bitch. I rant. I swear.  I go into seething fits about inconsequential details, and offences, and misunderstandings.  I critique others mercilessly while indulging myself. I’m addicted to silly things like YouTube and chips.

I’ve been flabbergasted by my inability to connect to, and like the music I sing.  Two ladies were cooing about how much they liked the new Christmas songs, and inside I’m like ‘really? I think they’re lame.’  This should all be so secondary, because the music is hardly the point.  The point is to worship Jesus through song, and by giving of my time and energy and voice so that others can meet with God.

My leaders have told me is that the frustration I bear owes to the fact that I have a lot of personal and spiritual growing to do.  I know they’re right, and I’m depressed about it.  I want to be fixed.  Now.

And that’s impossible.

A Summer of Masochism

While in prayer yesterday, God reminded me of how I learned to run.  I began Couch to 5K on June 17th, ran my first 5K race on August 19th, and ran 10K on November 1st.  This would have been impossible without 1) a program 2) time 3) lacing up and never missing a workout.  Most of it was great, but there were horrible things mingled in–days when I almost puked from heat an exertion, speed intervals in downpours, black and blue toenails, 5Ks I ran while sick with burning lungs and muscles (probably shouldn’t have done that).  Basically, I was never without pain for the entire summer.

Does that sound like torture?  Well, it sort of was.  But here I am a runner, and I’m so glad.

So I sensed that he was telling me not to be discouraged because I couldn’t be strong that very instant. I need time, training, and discipline.  It’s amazing what a year can do.  But what about two?

I have big plans for next year.  I’ll run my first 10K races, and I plan to run my first half-marathon at the end of the summer.  But there’s a chance that I’m thinking too small entirely, and what I’ll end up accomplishing is a lot bigger than that.  Effort, compounded, can do surprising things over time.

If you’re willing to give it.

Mohammed Ali said, “I hated every minute of training, but I said ‘Don’t quit.  Suffer now and live the rest of your life as a champion.'”

 

 

An Exceptionally Good Summer

Summer is over.  Manitoba’s autumn is the equivalent of winter in the coastal and southern areas–brain-freezing winds, thick frost, and gun-metal grey skies.

But it was a good summer.  I’ve been reflecting on this past summer and I’ve been so grateful for the great things that have happened this summer.  Here are the highlights.

Losing 30+ Pounds

This began in March, when I was introduced to the book Trim Healthy Mama.  The book advocates a low-glycemic, superfood approach to eating, which I have embraced.  This led to…

Running my First 5K

And my second, third and fourth.  I began the Couch to 5K program in mid-June, and ran my first race on August 17th, about nine weeks later.  Since the completion of the program, I have slowly been increasing my distance and speed.

Road Trip with Jess

In the first week of July, my sister and I packed up my little car and booted off to Minneapolis for a week of shopping, touring, and sister-time.  Neither of us had shopped at the Mall of America.  So we spent two eight-hour days shopping!  After that we were sick of the place, and toured a historic mansion, attended a Independence Day celebration at Fort Snelling, and drank a LOT of coffee.

 Publishing my First Novel

After a marathon of editing, and formatting, We are the Living was released as an E-book in August, and a print edition was released in September.  My friends and family, who didn’t have to format and edit it, were much more excited than I. 🙂

It’s a post-zombie-apocalypse-lovestory mishmash, and a beautiful story of hope in bleak places.  I hope it will be a stepping stone to greater things.  I sure learned a lot from it.

A New Church

Leaving the church of my childhood was like leaving home and family.  Now I am safely ensconced in a new church in town.  It is slowly becoming home.  I became a member of the choir two weeks ago, and now I feel like I have a family within the church family at large.

What Next?

So what will the winter hold?  For starters, I’m going to learn how to run on a treadmill.  I have no interest in running in -40 weather, so the treadmill will need to be my best friend.  I’ve never used one, so this might be funny for everyone else.

I have plans to complete National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) by writing the first book in a series, which I plan to debut late next year.  In the meantime, I am editing a sci-fi novel, for release in the spring.

And you know, I’m kind of looking forward to Christmas.  Too soon?

How was your summer?

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Don’t Write Christian Books

The Misunderstood Power of Christian Art: Part 3

I’m the person who skips through the ‘preachy’ sections, searching for the part where the romance and adventure begins again.  I’m the person who sighs heavily when the beleaguered protagonist falls to his knees.  I’m the one who rants on demand about how I can’t stand God’s Not Dead.  But why?

In Separating the Pulpit from the Novelist’s Pen, I talked about the notion that novels and movies must contain sermons and ‘lessons’.  I’ve often felt guilty for not relating to these parts.  I DO believe those sermons, right?  I do believe that God isn’t dead, and that faith is rational.  Heck, I’m a homeschooled, choir singing, Sunday School teaching Christian nice girl.

Meanwhile, I’ve been writing stories with curses, clones, clandestine romance, gladiator-like fighters and zombies.  I toy with profanity, and dance in the grey areas between darkness and light.  True, wisdom often dictates that I go back and censor myself, but eventually I had to decide that there isn’t something wrong with me.  I was just called to something different.

I am convinced that each artist must fulfill the role that only they can fill–be it in the genre of Christian fiction, or in the mainstream genres.  And mainstream is where I belong.

The Box Opened and I Jumped Out

I expect that Christian fiction, as an industry, was developed to provide a clean alternative to mainstream book genres.  This is certainly needed, because what passes as a ‘romance’ novel these days is more like soft-core pornography in written form.  Even genres that are not pegged as romantic contain a lot of this material.  Furthermore, the cynicism and nihilism present there might be useful to provoke thought, but as a regular diet it is not beneficial.  Essentially, the mainstream lacks truth.

However, in our efforts to provide an acceptable alternative, I feel we have created a sanitary little ghetto that we dare not poke our heads out of.  We keep to the basic basic plot of mission, failure, wise sermon, repentance, miraculous victory and positive resolution.  We recoil at the mention of sex, wash the blood out of our violence, and skirt wide around vulgar language.

That’s not wrong, but I don’t like it.

In the genre of speculative fiction, writing becomes even more tricky.  Draw in clones, immortal characters, or magic and theology is no longer straightforward.  Christian authors begin day-long debates over if clones can have souls, if magic can be attributed to the Holy Spirit, or if granting characters immortality is unbiblical.

“But immortal people don’t even exist!” I say, “Suspend the theology for a second.”

So I guess you could say I left the genre to get out of the box.  I want to honour God, make no mistake, but I need the artistic freedom to tell a story without having to check off the boxes or screen it through a certain size of filter.  As I said in the first part of The Misunderstood Power of Christian Art, censorship should come from wisdom or conviction–not out of fear of what people will say.  To tell a story I have to go places that are uncomfortable.  I make no apologies for that.  Sometimes one must look past the surface actions and words, and look at the ideas and feelings being imparted, and the questions that may be raised.

The Mainstream Isn’t in the Christian Aisle

The clean offerings of the Christian genre are an excellent alternative for Christians, but are they effective in outreach?  Are mainstream readers buying Christian books?  Some are, perhaps, but for the most part ‘religious stuff’ is unintelligible to them, and ‘Christian’ isn’t a keyword they are searching for.

Christians have their books, their truth.  Who will tell the truth to unbelievers?  I want to.

So many blogs are spreading gossip, spewing vitriol and cynicism.  I want mine to be positive, speaking hope about personal change and good relationships.  The shelves are full of books that glorify violence, sex, self-indulgence and manipulation.  I want mine to be about purpose, integrity in adversity, hope and sacrificial love.

I want to tell the truth in a world of lies.

The First Seed

I see my role as preparatory.  My generation neither knows, nor respects the Bible.  Their gospel is tolerance, and ‘awareness’ is their salvation.  If I quote chapter and verse, I might as well be quoting Dickens.

But do they have a purpose to life?  Are they fulfilled?  Does their life have a foundation?  I once asked a coworker, about my age and an atheist, what he based his life on.  He had no idea.  I don’t think he’d considered this.

That is precisely the kind of question I’d like to raise.  I want to be the salter of the oats, so to speak.  Or at very least, provide a good story that is full of good principles, not lies.

Missional Media

In the past, authors reached the world through a publishing company.  But in this age of the independent author (indie), the writer engages and markets through social media.  The reader might stumble across my book, but just as likely they will meet me first.  I may start a conversation with them on Twitter.  They may read my blog.  I may have met them on Facebook and connected over a shared interest.  Writing is increasingly ‘missional’ that way.  I go to them.

Therefore, what I DO is just as important as what I say.  Make no mistake.  I cannot sit in my basement (as if a third floor apartment could have a basement… but I digress) and write.  I have to genuinely care about people, wade into the stream of social media, notice, encourage, speak out.  I can’t claim to be good at this, but the potential in it is breathtaking.

To Conclude the Series

Christian art is a nebulous thing, if my wobbly definition can be trusted.  But though it’s hard to pin down, we cannot fear it.  It is the primary medium by which my generation absorbs information.  Who better than Christian artists to reach them–especially the young artists.  They understand the technology, the language, the cultural references.  They are the ‘indigenous missionaries’ of North America.  They shouldn’t be minimized, or forced to conform.  Rather, empower them to produce the best music, film and literature they can–full of grace and truth.  And encourage them to take it to as many people as they can.

 

The Misunderstood Power of Christian Art: Part 1

The Misunderstood Power of Christian Art: Part 2

Recommended Reading:

Tim Downs, Finding Common Ground

Madeleine L’Engle, Walking on Water

Dorothy Sayers, “Why Work?”  The whole essay is available in PDF form here.

 

 

 

 

My First 5K Race… Is it even called a race?

There was never a less epic race, but in my head it was a huge deal.

I’m still not sure a 5K is called a race, but friends have called it a marathon to which I would always say “It’s not a marathon!”

“So what do you call it?” they’d ask.

“I dunno. A race?”

The night before I watched Inception, and then tried to go to bed early. I couldn’t sleep—first because I was thinking and rethinking through the complicated storyline of Inception, and then because I was so dang amped up about the ‘race’ the next day. I got up before my six o’clock alarm and put on my gear.  In 45 minutes, I was driving Strawberry down the deserted road to the rural village where the 5K would take place.  My coffee churned in my stomach.

I got there far too early, but Grandpa was already there. If you’ve read my other posts about running, you might remember that Grandpa was the original runner in the family. He ran several full marathons, even in his sixties, and ran competitively into his seventies. He is highly active in the Manitoba Runners’ Association. So he’s pretty pleased that I’ve taken up the sport, to say the least.

He started advising me almost as soon as I stepped out of the car. “People are going to take off like a shot,” he said, “You just start out at a reasonable pace. You can pick them off later when they’re tired.”

I’d be lucky to, I thought.

Verna, who’d been my training partner by correspondence, showed up and we expressed our collective nervousness. I went through my usual stretching routine. There was still twenty minutes until the race began. I shivered from the cool morning breeze, and buckets of nervous energy.

Then, they called for us to come to the start. I shoved my headphone in my ear and began my tailored ‘Race Day’ playlist. They shouted out instructions for the course, but I couldn’t hear them. Then an air horn went off.

Oh! They’re starting? Okay. Off I go!

I set off at a lope, my heart pounding. People were passing me. I was panting in a hundred yards, bursting with adrenaline. Oh no, Oh no! went off in my head.

Easy. Settle down. Settle down. It’s okay. It’s just another run. Just another run. I settled into ‘cruising speed’ and found a rhythm.

One kilometre in, I could hear someone gasping for air behind me. I felt good—no fatigue, no burning in the lungs. Two kilometres, I passed someone who was walking. Just like Grandpa said, I picked off a couple of runners—and got picked off by a couple of runners. I was feeling really good.

Am I running too fast? Should I slow down? No, I can slow down later!

Around 3K, I passed a chick who was walking. As soon as I passed, she started running and passed me. A minute later, she was walking again. I passed her and never saw her again.

I turned the corner at the 4K sign and decided to pick up the pace just a little. Then, suddenly, I felt tired. Was there nothing left in the tank? Darn it!

But then I saw the corner before the finish, a turn into the school yard. Beyond it was the parking lot, and there was my family’s SUV. They were there to see me finish! I made the corner and sped up. There was the finish. I saw my family. I saw the clock. It was under my goal time. I broke into a dead run, ran past my family, and pumped my fist as I crossed the line.

And now it’s over.

I realize that ‘real’ runners can do so much more. There are people out there who can run 5K in half the time I did. When I realized this, I felt a bit depressed. I remind myself I’m a writer, ultimately, not a runner. That’s my call, as best I know it. But if I think that at the beginning of the summer I would have laughed at the thought of running 5K, or that six weeks ago I thought ten minutes was a long stretch to run, well… I’m floored.  Honestly, I still feel like a poser.

I started a new running program today, and I have another 5K in three weeks.  I’m not sure where this is taking me, but I’m excited to find out!

I Did It! I Completed Couch to 5K.

I ran 5 kilometres for the first time this week.

It was awful.  But I’m so proud.  I began running eight weeks ago.  That day I ran 6, 1 minute intervals.  I had such an intense stitch in my side that I thought I was going to keel over.  That whole week I wobbled around the factory on rubber legs.  By the next week, I was running 2.5 minute intervals and feeling stronger.  Three weeks ago, I ran my first mile.

As I walked home from my run that day,  I reflected on why I was doing this.

When I was in my early teens, I was at a youth conference with members of my church.  One of the chaperones met a friend there, and they planned to go for a run.  One of my friends was tagging along and I, desperate to be accepted, said “Sure.  I’ll come too.”  How hard could it be?  I was left behind in less than a minute, humiliated and unable to continue.

That Saturday, my first mile run behind me, I said “This mile’s for you,” to my friend and my chaperone.  I could keep up with them, but it was too late.

I said “this mile’s for you,” to my peers who were always faster and more athletic than me, who I couldn’t keep up with and finally gave up on.

I said “this mile’s for you,” to my Grandpa, who ran competitively well into his seventies, until an injury took him out of the sport. He now organizes races with the Manitoba Runners’ Association, and coached me through my training.

I run my first 5K race on August 17th.  My Grandpa and my family will be there to cheer me on as I cross the finish line.  Today, in the last half-kilometre of my run, I pictured their faces and heard them yelling “Go Geralyn.”  I imagined getting a surge of energy, and picking up speed as I crossed the finish.  I almost began to cry.

Running on my parents’ acreage

I’ve learned this over the past months: the power of seeing the end at the beginning.  “Greater things are yet to come,” I’d say to myself on one of my three-minute runs.  Running, which is truly only a small thing, became a romantic battle, a fight between myself and my tired legs, my burning lungs, and the lure of the couch after a long day of work.

If I can do this, I can do so much more.

Right I don’t plan on increasing the distance of my runs.  I’d rather run 5K a little faster than run 10K.  5K is still too painful to want to run twice as long!  But I’ll never say never.  These two months have also taught me that.  Because I shouldn’t be doing this.  I’m built like a Clydesdale, not built a gazelle.  I’m artsy, not athletic.  I’ve never played sports.  But here I am.  I probably won’t ever win a race, but I hope that others will look at my tiny example and be inspired to try something that, by rights, they shouldn’t be able to do.

 

5 Fun Things Challenge: Day 3 Proof of Life

Hello Friends,

Three days I embarked on the ‘5 Fun Things’ challenge, a contest with myself to do a minimum of one thing every day–just for the heck of it.  This is an attempt to lighten up, enjoy life, and rest more.

So, what have I done so far?

As much as I liked OutstandingBachelor’s idea to page myself at work without disguising my voice, I work in a factory and I was afraid the supervisor would give me the gears if I called “Geralyn to Geralyn” over the two-way radio.  I can’t afford to get on her bad side right now. 🙂

Instead…

Day 1: Friday

1. I drew ‘Crash Test Dougie’ in the dust on the encapsulator machine.  Crash Test Dougie is a stick man with buckteeth and a big hat, whom I used to scrawl over my physics homework in high school.  Instead of being filled in with dust, Dougie became more and more distinct as the day went on.

2. Canceled the supper menu, which was tomato soup (who eats tomato soup on Friday night?  Boring!) and made pizza instead.

3. Invented a Pumpkin Spice Latte Frappe/Protein Shake.  It’s more intense than Starbucks and without the high-fructose corn syrup!

4. Watched three episodes of The Mentalist with my sister.

Day 2: Saturday

1. Rerouted my run through a park so I could look at the flowers.  I discovered ornamental cabbages.

2. Went to a fireworks show.  They shot the fireworks off to Disney tunes!

Day 3: Sunday

1. Shot guns with my brother.

2. Went on an ‘adventure run’.  I ran through my parents’ acreage–terrain composed of knee high grass, wildflowers, and the occasional ‘cow pie.’

Not my usual stomping grounds.

Am I accomplishing the point?

I’m learning to keep my eyes open for fun, and then seize the opportunity when it comes.  I hope to make this a habit.

It reminds me of Jim Carey’s ‘Yes Man,’ where he says ‘yes’ to everything people ask him to do.

I’d  say to myself, “Run through the park and look at the flowers.”

“No, I’m tired.”

(Weedling, now) “It’ll be fun.”

“Oh, okay.”

Or, Jon says, “Do you want to come shoot with me?”

(Internally) “But I have stuff to do!”

“Oh c’mon, it’ll be fun.”

(Externally) “Oh, okay.”

I used to live by the philosophy that to refuse adventure was to impeach my courage and honour.  Maybe this challenge will restore some of my former spirit.  Two days to go.  Will you join me?

Judge this Book by its Cover

We are the Living is so close to release I can almost taste it.  In fact I do taste it.  It savours of puke at the back of my throat, I’m so dang nervous!  Here is the first look at the cover.

The description from the back:

“Kayla’s plans are as finely tuned as her cello, so when Liam joins her friends on their tour of Europe, she resents him.  The ex-soldier with a fragile psyche seems like a liability.  But when political turmoil in France explodes into a zombie apocalypse, their lives may depend on this warrior’s skills.

Their flight takes them to a tiny Italian community where a mysterious priest is curing zombies. There, the Kayla and Liam’s shared horror draws them together.  But they aren’t the only ones who want the cure.

As the threat of the living eclipses the danger of the undead, they must decide whether to run, or to fight for those they love.”

Stay tuned!

Geralyn

Goodbye: A Letter to my Church

It’s difficult to leave home because you can’t ever go back–not really.

The philosopher Cratylus said that you don’t even step into the same river once. For not only is the river flowing, but so are you. Everything flows forward and when you look back, home has ceased to be.

So I’m leaving with the realization that I will never truly come home.

I’m not leaving because of conflict–if I were, I would have left long ago. But I knew that like any relationship, periods of frustration and anger are par for the course, and if the relationship is as important as the one with the church, you just stick it out.

This is about growing up–about taking my place in this world.

As I’ve grown, my theology and my worldview have been in constant evolution, and I’ve realized that not all of us think and practice the same. This is normal, and okay. It’s analogous to personalities.

For a time now, I’ve felt like the round peg in the square hole. I don’t disagree with this church’s theology and practice, but they aren’t “me” either. I thought something was wrong with me at first, but now I see that I am meant to be elsewhere.

A friend connected me with a ‘cell group’ from a church here in town. I never wanted to attend there–it’s too big, to demonstrative, too ‘hocus pocus.’ But the moment I met those girls, I felt at home. I’ve never grown more, spiritually, than I have among them–praying, learning to listen to God, confessing to each other. It was, and is, uncomfortable, but I’ve come to peace with that.

I leave with deep regret because I’ll miss my friends. I’ll miss my Sunday School kids. I guess I’ll miss my identity here. I’ll never forget that this was the church that nurtured me, fostered a love of service in me, taught me to serve, to teach and to lead in song. I thank God for you, my brothers and sisters. I love you. Goodbye.

With tears,

Geralyn