Robin Layne's Blog: From the Red, Read Robin - Posts Tagged "god"

Throughout November, I spent a great deal of my time composing and rewriting a short story that is just short of novelette length to submit to a horror anthology called War is Hell. Writers might be interested in the process (including finding six incredibly helpful people to critique it on short notice, for which I am eternally thankful), but anyone may benefit from the moral lesson that writing it drove home to me. My story, “Against Heaven and Hell,” concerns two people who hold onto their wounds and bitterness, and reveals the horrible paths they follow. The two people are a vampire named Luke and the infamous Benedict Arnold. The horror the tale highlights is something we can all find within ourselves: if we cling to bitterness, it can destroy us and, potentially, the people around us. Bitterness kills friendships, twists the conscience, blinds us to truth, robs us of health, leads to revenge, and ultimately ends in despair. Jesus said that people who refuse to forgive others will be turned over to tormentors until they have paid all they owe (Matt. 18:34)—not because God delights in seeing us tormented, but so that we might learn to show a little compassion in return for the huge amount of compassion He has shown to us. When we defeat bitterness by forgiving offenses, the person we release is ourselves. This is no new thought for many, but learning to walk in such freedom can still be a lifelong lesson.

While concentrating so much on writing “Against Heaven and Hell,” I found myself absorbing the attitudes of its two main characters. I grumbled at how little pay I would likely get for all my hard work. I felt that however fun this labor might be, my talent and time was worth much more. After all, such a piece of writing as this represents a lifetime of gathering and communicating stories for close to no compensation at all, and the result of half a century's work, I am pleased to say, is some of my strongest writing. I’m not the only person who shares such an opinion about this story. But I was falling into the same pit as Benedict Arnold when he harbored resentment toward Congress for not giving him his back pay.

Most people today know nothing about Benedict Arnold except that he was a traitor. But research reveals that he was a brave, charismatic general and a brilliant strategist—clearly one of the greatest heroes of the American Revolution. Without his help, the American cause may well have failed, and if he had succeeded in his betrayal, Britain would likely have won the war. George Washington thought the world of Arnold and did all he could to recognize his heroism. But General Arnold’s successes and temperament earned him some strong enemies, and he missed out on much of the recognition he deserved. Add to that plenty of time to stew over the injustices against him while he spent months in excruciating pain recovering from a battle injury, and you have a potential time bomb, if you will excuse a more modern alusion.

In my fictional story, a surgeon’s assistant tending Arnold encourages the bitterness in his heart and guides his thoughts toward the eventual betrayal of his country. My fictional character, Luke, acts as the embodiment of the temptations that beset the injured general, but in real life, we need no vampires to tempt us away from the healing that we can gain through forgiveness. It seems to be within our nature to hold onto offenses that have come against us, even though it means, so to speak, cutting off our noses to spite our faces.

We often make the mistake of thinking in terms of whether people who have hurt us deserve to be forgiven—as if it’s all a matter of the size of the offense, and we, as the offended, have the ability, and perhaps even the responsibility, to make that judgment. I have learned, however, that it’s not a matter of how bad the offence is, but of how much was paid by our loving Savior to rescue both the offender and the victim. The price was so high as to be compared with infinity.

Forgiveness is not always easy, no matter what we may know about it. When barbs pierce my heart, I don’t feel like I am forgiving the person who has hurt me. Sometimes the best I can do is choose to forgive, or, if that is not possible, to ask God to forgive for me (a model I learned from Jesus at the cross). The feelings of hurt and anger are normal, okay to feel, as long as we don’t cling to them and let them fester like gangrene in an old wound. The rule of thumb is to let go of these feelings within a day. “Don’t let the sun go down on your anger.” (Ephesians 4:26) In other words, don’t sleep on it and let a grudge seep into your dreams.

It may shock some to hear this, but sometimes the person we have to forgive is God. In the case of my character Luke, the incident that incites his evil bent is his childhood perception that his December 25th birthday has been supplanted by the baby Jesus—implying that from his very birth, Luke is slighted by God. It doesn’t matter how absurd the cause of our pain may seem. Feelings are important, especially if when we are children too young to make sense of our pain. It is important to acknowledge our anger. God is big enough to absorb it. In fact, he is the only one big enough to do so.

The feelings that accompany healing will follow the decision of the will to forgive. I’ve found it can take years, even decades, depending on the nature of the offense and our reactions to it, but the pain does lessen. I am convinced that the hard work of forgiveness is much more satisfying in the end than the seemingly easier road of resentment. And if we learn not to be offended in the first place, everything will be easier.


In other news, please note that I've just posted the final installment of “Manuel Pascal” under Robin’s Writings, in time for you to enjoy the entire tale for Christmas.


Wishing you all a blessed time as you celebrate the holidays this winter,
Robin

I held the tent flap closed with my right hand, except for the little hole I created to see through. In my left hand, I held a fanned-out wad of money. A hand in a long, black satin glove grabbed mine and together we strode out into the hot sun of Portland’s Pioneer Square; I kept my eyes on the Devil as I mirrored the being’s movement—lifting my free arm and shaking the twenty dollar bills , then pulling my arm dramatically down. The Devil, all in black, with an elaborate mask over the eyes, moved with all the grace of the ultimate puppet master, charming one after another of us to tempt and torment a straying child of God. Released, I held my prize beyond the slim girl’s reach as she begged. I shook my head. I pointed to the necklace Jesus had given her when she had romped and danced with him in innocence and freedom. I motioned for her to give it to me. The girl hesitated, but I nodded. She finally relented—removed her string of colorful beads and handed it to me, then reached out for her reward. Holding my the necklace, I held the money beyond her reach, laughed in pantomime, and backed off. I took my place in front of the lover with the red rose who had first charmed her away from Paradise. I compared my money to the necklace. My lips curled in disgust. I tossed the worthless piece of junk aside. I didn’t even look aside when Jesus lunged forward and picked it up. I was too intent on my beloved mammon. I held it up, kissed it, counted it, counted it again.

By that time, the third “sin,” Vanity, had approached in her violet dress and styled hair, measured the girl’s waist, found her wanting, and taught her to vomit. Next, a drunkard in Mardi Gras beads spun awkwardly out of the Devil’s grasp, stumbled up to the girl, and introduced her to a bottle of something that made her sputter. A drug lord followed, and then, at the depths of her despair, the girl imitated Suicide, who wore a black hood and led her in cutting her arm . . .

The Devil was actually a woman named Sarah, an amazingly talented dancer, who wore not Prada but ballet slippers. When she was younger, she used to dance for Ringaling Brothers Circus. She was a good leader in the “sin” tent, although she had a tendency to talk during rehearsals in spite of the orders of the director/producer/choreographer, Carissa, who also played a demon in this fourteen minute show, “Miracle Man.” Members of Westside Vineyard Church, we performed our dance four times on Saturday, August 3, at Pioneer Square in Portland, Oregon, as part of our annual Heaven to Earth Festival. Yes, I know, I’m a little late at describing it. I’ve been very busy.

Getting free of being a “sin” took some time and a little struggle. First, in response to a backward glance at the girl (played by a teen named Lisa), Jesus pushed all the sins aside and let another girl (Kaitlin), who had stayed loyal to him throughout, pull the gun from Lisa and pled for her to let go of her shame and be reconciled to her Lord. As all this took place, I couldn’t watch. I had to stand motionless with my head down, until Satan and two demons crept out and brought us back up again. Then we reached out toward Lisa like zombies, pleading with our respective props. She considered turning back to her sins, then turned her attention fully to Jesus. Three angels in white stepped in front of us, and we backed off from the unseen barrier. The demons went back to casting their spells to keep us wrapped up with our symbolic props. I went back to counting money, but this time my expression was less gleeful, more hardened.

Jesus danced again with both his girls, and then spun them in our direction. They brought each of the tempters to Jesus, going from the first to the last. I kept counting and kissing my money until they got to me. I looked from one to the other, confused, as they dragged me forward; I offered them money, but strangely, they showed no interest whatever. As soon as I crossed the line of angels, I saw Jesus face-to-face. Seeing his loving gaze changed everything, just as it did for all the others. For, unlike the “sins” in the Lifehouse “Everything Sketch,” on which our drama was based, we were also people—just people who had been enslaved by Satan.

I ran into the Lord’s embrace. During rehearsal, I had suggested that I might knock him over with my weight and enthusiasm. “Jesus” was a tall high school student who looks older than he really is. He wore blue jeans, and a purple sash over a white tee-shirt that got a little “blood” on it when Suicide and Lisa hugged him. But like the rest of us, the boy had Jesus in him; God’s love shone in his beautiful blue eyes.

We lined up on either side of Jesus and, when he gave the signal, marched forward against Satan and the demons. As one, we held out our hands as if to push them away, and the angels charged between us and routed the evil ones, who ran into the tent to the right of the stage. The applause in the accompanying music was joined by the cheers of the generous-sized audience.

Together we turned and walked back to Jesus. We circled him and danced around him in worship. “Holy . . . You are holy . . . who was, and is, and is to come . . .” (“Miracle Maker,” sung by Kim Walker)

We then each had a short moment of interaction with the Lord—first Kaitlin hugged him , then I hugged him again, bowed, and walked behind the circle back to the tent. Suicide also went back to the tent, but other than Satan, we were the only ones who didn’t join in the final dance—a rousing hip-hop to “I Feel So Alive,” by Capital Kings.
Here is a link to the video, which was recorded during the first and second performances: http://youtu.be/MawFxZEmq_w
The second performance contained the shots with the chalk markings on the bricks.

What the audience couldn’t see was that my performance (and all the rehearsals) were a sacrifice for me. I had injured my knees falling off a bike, and they were slow to heal. That was why I couldn’t do a controlled fall to the bricks like the others, and why Carissa changed it so I had to stand, which was painful too over a long period of time; she had Rachel, who played the drunkard, stand as well so that I wouldn’t stand out so much.

I wasn’t the only one injured during the course of rehearsals. I think something happened to Sarah early on. Then Daniel, and especially Lisa, suffered abrasions going down a concrete slide at a youth retreat. Lisa was banged up so badly she couldn’t let anyone touch her for a while, and a piece of gauze stuck to her wound as if it were part of her skin. The real Devil was trying hard to shut us down. But we persevered, and we kept praying and practicing. It all worked out well in the end.

Some events of note about the process: One Sunday night after we had rehearsed in the afternoon, I was in the cry room in back of the sanctuary, and Daniel was asleep in an easy chair. In front of me I noticed a familiar brown ponytail from the back. Sarah, I thought. I said to her, “Jesus conked out, but Satan is still wide awake and prowling around.”

The woman turned and stared at me. “What?” It wasn’t Sarah, and she had no idea why I had just called her Satan.
On the day of the outreach, many of us arrived early to help set up the tents: A stage for the worship bands; a large prophetic art and children’s tent complete with a bubble machine, art supplies, and paintings on display; a healing tent, where a number of people would experience miracles through God’s love; a “messages from God” tent, where believers prayed and gave people words of knowledge and encouragement. Our drama group stayed in close communication so that we could be properly prepared for each of the performances of “Miracle Man.” At lunchtime, we walked together from Pioneer Square toward the Waterfront, toward a stretch of outdoor food booths. On the way, I saw a billboard with my prop on it: Key Bank used a fan of twenty dollar bills to advertise its gift of free money to new customers. The major difference was that the billboard showed real bills. Mine showed Shakespeare instead of Jackson on the front and I had carefully stapled them back-to-back so the blank backs didn’t show on either side of the “fan.”
As I hung out in the art tent between performances, a couple of our members spoke of some needy people whom they had met who said they would come to the Heaven to Earth Festival. These people never arrived. Tim, one of our dancers, said they must have been distracted by “Sarah.” We may have a new code word, we agreed. When I told Sarah later, she said, “I’m never going to live this down!”

On another day following the festival, the drama group gathered one final time to debrief, to sign Thank You cards for the people in the church who had interceded for us, and to receive awards. Each award certificate was unique. Mine, which now hangs in my apartment entryway, is “the superstar perseverance award.” Carissa’s is “the multipersonality award” because she was the writer, director, choreographer, and also played a demon that transformed into an angel for the final dance. Daniel’s award said, “I’m God. Who the heck are you?” We discussed possibly performing again in the future, and many said they were interested. But when asked if we might perform at a Waterfront outreach this month, not enough people were interested, and there would not have been enough time to create a new drama for a small number of people. Really, it’s no surprise; most of our performers are students, and it’s September.

Ironically, my knees are finally healed, so I could have done it much easier. Now that I am no longer needed for the part, there is no pressure from “Sarah.”

I went to Wordstock yesterday; I couldn’t make it Saturday because we had auditions for our next Well Arts performance (which will be in the first two weekends of November). Sorry to miss one day of my favorite book fair, I didn’t have time to visit every booth. But what a wonderful and useful time I had! It was the most productive Wordstock ever for me.

Much of the event inspired me. I wrote notes to myself in the margins of my spiral-bound pad. One of those notes was a provocative concept to mull over. Observe me mulling.

In the panel Writing for Children and Teens, authors Jane Smiley and Melanie Thorne both mentioned “achieving a certain age and staying there forever.” This seemed like a new and unusual idea. I asked the panelists to expand on this thought. The moderator interpreted my question to mean what inner age each of them were inside, but I was more interested in what the idea meant in the first place. The women said it refers to the moment you become “a real person, a real human being” (Jane), “the core you.” Jane said it was the summer she topped 6 feet tall. Her ADD had left her out of touch, she said, until the day she woke up and saw “the world looked different from up here.”

I’m unaware of such an epiphany in my life—at least, so far. I feel I always knew I was unique and real and individual. So much so, in fact, that I used to fantasize that there was a TV show called “Robin” that was all about me—my creativity and intelligence, my struggles to get along with other kids, and my need to be understood. I thought I was great. My parents said I was an old little soul, so I thought I was wiser than most people, including them. Maybe I was. The struggle of not being understood or accepted was painful, but I believed that, just as if they saw my imaginary TV show, people would one day know how great I really was because I would be a famous artist and writer when I grew up. Then my peers would be sorry they had teased me when we were little.

Did most people miss out on that feeling of greatness and individuality? I never understood the desire for kids to be carbon copies of each other and to ostracize anyone who in any way didn’t fit the cookie cutter that I think none really fit inwardly anyway. I never understood adults with the same childish attitude, either. It still strikes me as the epitome of immaturity. I recall some spiel about a movie or something about a team of heroes bent on “protecting the ordinary from the extraordinary.” How imbecilic! I thought. Why protect them from us? We are all extraordinary in our own ways. We were each made in the image of God—a different facet of his very nature. What could be more extraordinary than that?

Even before I started reading the Bible and learned I was made in the image of God, I knew I was extraordinary. But I didn’t know everybody else was. They were mostly so bent on being ordinary that I couldn’t see past that plain disguise. So I was stuck up, and that didn’t help me make friends, either. What do you do when all your drawings are much more realistic and expressive than the other kids’ your age? When they either hate you out of envy or hate themselves because they can’t draw as well as you do? How about when you just have to finish writing out the idea you just had rather than go on an excursion with acquaintances? That didn’t win me friends, either. At some point I had to learn that people are more important than books. But still, there is a balance . . . and at a place like Wordstock, I’m surrounded by nerdy booklovers like myself—good people, good books, and talking about books and people—what a winning combination!

But still—if there is a moment I missed, or several of them, in which I became the core me and then stayed there to this day, I ask the Lord to reveal that to me. It seems to me I must keep growing up in some ways while staying a child in others . . . childlike rather than childish, I’ve heard it said.

When I was a child, I thought that my golden year was age 5. That was before I realized how disliked I was destined to be, and I spent a great deal of my time hamming it up to family and friends of family. I think of my inner child as being forever five.

It’s interesting that although it was only the women who defined the concept, all four panelists had an answer about their inner age (Tad Hills had to think about it a bit). Having a younger real or inner age must make it easier to write about a character who is that age. But if you are stuck at that age forever, how do you write about that character growing up? Maybe I won’t know unless and until I find out my “real” age. Or do I already know it? Is it five? If so, maybe I am an old little soul, even if it’s not in the sense that my parents thought.

I can’t resist adding a reference to “becoming real” in one of my favorite stories, The Velveteen Rabbit, by Margery Williams. I repeat its message as well as I can remember it. Becoming real, says the wise old Skin Horse, isn’t how you are made. It’s something that happens when you are loved for a very long time. You may get loved into a shabby condition, but when you are real this doesn’t matter.

I know that I have been loved for a very long time. We all have been, but knowing it, really experiencing it so that it’s not just a fact but the core of who you are deep inside, is key to being real. Most of the toys in the story get it all wrong. They think they are real if they have clockwork making them move and make sounds, but those toys stop working, the child loses interest in them, and they are abandoned. Toys that break easily have a hard time being loved, because love hurts sometimes. It’s a deep message. Though it’s a children’s book, I didn’t learn about it until I was at least a teen, maybe older.

When I was little, I had no idea of how deeply I was loved or who loved me. In Sunday school, we sang about it but I didn’t experience it, so “Jesus Loves Me” meant worse than nothing to me. I thought it was a stupid song. Jesus wasn’t real to me, so how could he love me? I hated singing nonsense songs and learning boring stories about strangers hearing strange voices and doing strange things. Wow, what a change came over me once the Bible told me what church somehow could not. At some point “Jesus Loves Me” became my favorite song. But I never drowned in that ocean of love until I was 24. Maybe that’s my real age. The age that my Savior romantically wooed me, healed my broken heart from all those bad past relationships by replacing it with the union of our hearts. He got me alone, isolated from others, and sensitized to spiritual realities. In a vivid mental vision, I saw him climb in my window, walk up to me, and climb into my body. From the inside of me, he showed me what he feels for me and others, acted out the works of his Father’s obedient Son, and communicated his intimate thoughts with me. And he showed me then and over the years what perfect love is.

Maybe I’m not 24, though. Because I’m always growing in that love. Maybe it’s my mind catching up with my heart. Or both catching up with my spirit. Maybe my real age is always what I am becoming. Maybe I’m the age Jesus was when he finished his work; maybe his age is all I ever need to be. Or I should count from the day in my childhood when I first asked him into my heart, because I’m told my spirit became alive that day. But I never recorded the day or year, nor the November day in 1984 when he walked into me, or the day (was it the same one?) in which he first called me his wife. Sad not to have an anniversary, but my life was in a really mixed-up state back then. Drowning in love can be very messy, but I don’t regret a second of it.

I got confused later, and set aside the intimacy Jesus brought me. Eventually I got it straightened out, and then I really wanted to have an anniversary date. I wanted a ceremony to solidify the ethereal bond, and he showed through some other beloved people that he wanted to as well. So on the 20th of November, 1999, I dressed in a wedding gown and, accompanied by three friends and my one daughter, celebrated with music, shared the story of our romance, and let the Lord who is within me place a ring on my left hand. Freed even more deeply from wounds and sins that haunted me, I stomped on the communion goblet we had drank from.

So now I see there are multiple ways I could define my real age. I cannot settle on any one of them. Which is fitting. I never was good with numbers.

Holy Bible: The New King James Version by Anonymous

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


I have finished reading this version from Genesis through Revelation. I really like the NKJV for its beauty and accuracy. Like the original King James, it was prepared by people who all believed in the early Creeds of Christianity. Words that have changed meaning since 1611 have been updated to be understandable to modern readers, and earlier documents discovered since the KJV was written have been consulted. Often more than one possible meaning of a word or verse is available.
I fell in love with the Bible, and hence the God who inspired it, as a child, after my mom ended one of my "temper tantrums" by handing me a Bible and telling me, "Just open it up anywhere and read it." I found it calmed me, and it showed me I was loved by my very creator. The things I learned blew me away! This Book transformed me from a child who would rather kick and scream than go to church to a young person and then adult who couldn't get enough of the teaching and fellowship church among my fellow believers. Jesus is my everything now, and I know it's only the beginning of an incredible eternity with Him. Now for my start to finish Bible reading I will tackle the MacArthur Study Bible, which is a New American Standard Bible, though my smaller edition of the NKJV will always be treasured and consulted, being more compact. Watch for my review--eventually!--of this larger Bible, which is filled with commentary. I can't remember when I started reading the New King James or exactly when I finished, so the ending date I give here is approximate.



View all my reviews

I have been asked to create something about nuances. I’m finding it easier to write about polarization than nuance. Something in human nature embraces the idea of absolutes. I believe that instinct responds to some realities, at least in the spiritual realm. First and foremost, I am convinced that God is 100% good… that He is goodness itself and intends good for human beings. This world we live in, however, is imperfect because of choices people have made that have influenced it. As a result, people often misunderstand what is good and what is bad, and they have trouble trusting that God has their best interest at heart—if they believe in God at all.
Imperfect human beings who can’t perceive the natures of God and His supernatural enemies tend to turn their polarization instinct toward one another. I see this most strongly on the political scene. My personal response to politics is to say, like Treebeard in The Lord of the Rings, “I am not altogether on anyone’s side because no one is altogether on my side.” Outside feels most natural to me. I must admit that when I must think of the highly polarized two-party system and the ways that each side in this circus screams that the other side is evil incarnate, my own reaction is polarized: I hate politics! This battle has been going on for a long time, getting worse and worse, but you’d think just maybe a huge threat like a world-wide pandemic would cause the sides to call a truce to work together toward solutions. Nope. Not even staring widespread death in the face inspires these horrid children to grow up an inch. The insanity only continues to increase under this test. Each side blames the other for the virus and prevents the other from doing its part in making things better.
The true nuance of the situation is that no human being on earth is altogether good or altogether evil. Only one ever walked this world who was totally good, and at this time of year we celebrate the day we nailed Him to a cross. People didn’t like to see such good walking around because it uncovered their secret evils. Nevertheless, they couldn’t keep this good man down or stop His mission to increase God’s goodness in this fallen world. Why did His work continue throughout history through the people He chose to spread His good contagion? Why does it continue today, unfinished but still struggling to win? Because God made human beings in His image, and that image is a seed that grows with the proper soil and water, and because Jesus is the living Word of God, and God’s word never fails. I have it on the best authority that one day the world will be restored to a better state than it was in the beginning when all was very good like the God who made it. It’s a long process, though, because none of us, not even the strongest of believers, is all good or all bad. The best we can do is step aside in our own skins and let the Spirit of Jesus live through us—something none of us succeeds at all the time.
Could an entirely evil human being ever exist? That is a point under much debate. The very fact that people dwell on this idea as much as they do implies inner depravity. The human imagination has created many horror movies depicting people, or ex-people, so evil that it’s a virtue and a matter of survival to kill them. It’s everything from zombies to the Antichrist. I’m uneasy when people fill their minds with such ideas, because it feeds the ultimate us-versus-them mentality. Such mentality makes prejudice, hatred, and genocide easy.
I even wonder whether anything in the universe is totally evil. Genesis tells us that everything God created is good. This fact implies to me that evil isn’t a separately created thing. It is the twisting and bending of the good, just as a lie must begin with something true that is then twisted. Keith Green, in the song “No One Believes in Me Anymore (Satan’s Boast),” sang, “I put some truth in every lie to tickle itching ears.” In other words, people aren’t evil enough to be interested in pure lies. We are creatures that feed on truth. Unfortunately, we find it too easy to swallow a lot of poison with truth-baited food, especially if we’ve become accustomed to certain tastes. So there you have it, a sad explanation of some common nuances that can do us in. The encouraging point to remember is that, since evil is only a perversion of good, it’s not as powerful as the real thing, and as long as a person is alive, there is hope for that person.
I am inclined to think no human being exists or will exist who is altogether evil, because all were made in the image of God, and here on earth, there are always some things to encourage and even reward goodness in people.

I’m ending this essay here because it’s time to share it with my MeetUp group. I am already late for the Zoom meeting. I may add a little later or expound on some of the points at some future date. Happy Easter!

I have been asked to say something about “when I grow up.” It would seem an odd question for someone about to turn 60, but considering I still don’t fill the shoes I envisioned as a child—and still want to—it’s valid today. I’m frustrated that I’m still not a published novelist, especially when I think how much of my childhood was filled with making up long stories I thought back then that I would write. Portions of those books filled my head especially during the hours I tried to fall asleep at night, those “he said”s and “she said”s I no longer recall. I know what some of the themes and even titles of those would-be books were, but they were replaced over time by other book ideas that interested me more.

In a sense I am what I wanted to be, a writer, but to some I will not be considered an author until I publish a novel. I have published some articles and short stories and a surprising number of poems. I am always working on a novel of some sort--have been since my junior high days--but I haven’t completed one to the point I would send it in to a publisher.

I was having a conversation with God about this subject today. He said, “Are you going to write this week about what you want to do, or who you want to be?

That was a profound question. I saw them as two very separate things. A thing I really want to do, write and publish novels, isn’t nearly as important as who I want to be. When I get too sidetracked with activities, I remind myself I’m a human being, not a human doing. Another thing I heard a long time ago from that still small voice is “people are more important than books.” That conviction is one reason I spend a lot of time keeping up my social life and reaching out to people whenever I see a need. I love people because I love God and God loves people and gives me a love for them. The time I spend with people may take time away from my writing, but if people are more important than books, I have no reason to be ashamed that I haven’t had a book finished and published yet.

So exactly what or who do I want to be when I grow up? It’s not an occupation I strive toward, but an identity and a quality. I want to be so filled with the Spirit of God and so surrendered to His will that I’m as much like Jesus as I can become in this lifetime. If I die without publishing a novel, I and some others will be disappointed, but if I die and don’t hear the words from my Lord that I want to hear, I’ll know I’ve disappointed the most important Being in the universe, and, so doing, many in the universe that I could have touched in a positive way. The words I want to hear when I pass on to Heaven are, “Well done, My good and faithful servant!” I want to please the Lord because I love Him, because He’s worthy to be loved and pleased, and because what pleases Him is all that is right and loving. That’s what I really live for! Too many times I miss making this life purpose my first priority and don't look at myself through its lens. The world pressures me to answer the question, “What do you do?” and when they ask it, they mean, “How do you make a living?” (which isn’t even writing) or “What do you spend the most time doing?” or “What do you consider your career?” How many people want to know who I want to be like or who I want to please? I get too shy of admitting what is really most important to me. Although I love writing, it’s not so much an end as a means. I am indeed driven to write, but to write what? Truth and love are the messages I hope to communicate most. People who don’t like fiction don’t understand how fiction can communicate truth or inspire love. But people who love fiction understand. And they, I hope, can come away changed for the better after reading something I’ve written. What I write flows from who I am. That’s as true in a simple text to a friend as it is in the series of novels I hope to complete. Who I am is a lover of God and people, a follower of Jesus Christ. When I grow up, I want to be more deeply in love with Him than ever—and show it!