Gratitude

Gratitude is such an odd sensation. It often comes with a sense of relief usually because we are experiencing some boon that was not expected…relief from sorrow, a special kindness, an extravagant gift.

However we in North America seem to experience thankfulness less and less and more often replace it with an attitude of entitlement. There is a sense that we deserve the best of people and require their respect and honour while doing very little to merit it. We have so much that so many don’t have.

I have traveled too much (and not the five star travel) not to know how privileged we are to live in a country in which we are enabled to feel entitled…that in itself is such a freedom. We are able to live without restraint…to speak our mind, worship in peace, and choose our lifestyle without judgement and if we are judged/restrained, to have an avenue for dispute.  

We live also in such affluence. Even the poorest in my country and city would count among the richest in the world. And they would have access to social programs should they need or want them at any given time. This is a luxury as well. Even the homeless are free to live in the manner they have chosen or fallen into. Please, I am not judging the homeless in our country/city or the reasons/situations that cause their homelessness and I am even compassionate over their circumstances and don’t begrudge them the access to many programs that they have. I revel in the fact that our country provides for them. And the wealthy in North America, are among the wealthiest in the world, and often the most generous with their wealth. But I would guess that they have little understanding of the impact of their generosity as it often comes at such a distance from the gratitude it elicits.

My greatest thankfulness has come at the moment when I have looked poverty in the real face of it…physical poverty, spiritual poverty, poverty of mind…an elderly woman offering me mate tea outside her brick hovel in the Argentine desert, a homeless, jobless African American man, singing in the streets with me in inner-city Chicago, a Cambodian university student struggling to pay tuition on her $1/hour job and her neighbour whose brother was sold into slavery so her siblings could have clothing and food, a Muslim woman on a port in southern Spain afraid to take an Aramaic bible for fear her husband would be angry, a young father in Eastern Europe struggling to provide for his family on a currency devalued by half and frustrated over a system that would put his brother in jail without trial for speaking his mind.

In these situations, my selfish heart cries out in gratitude, ‘Thank you, God that it is not me!’ And that is my greatest relief, the great boon from my Father, the gift of grace that I do not deserve. That I should live where I do, that my husband cares for me and supports me, that my children have the freedom to be and say and do what they will, even in entitlement, that my home is strong and safe around me and is warm in winter and cool in summer, that my table is laden, that I have work that appreciates me in attitude and salary, that I and my family have access to education of all kinds and that within it we are taught to develop our own thought process, that I have a government that will support me out of country, that I can trust my police force to protect me, that I have access to the best health care system in the world and to a countryside so grand in its beauty and space, such wide open underpopulated space. And that I may worship freely the God that grants me the benediction of it all.  I am blessed beyond measure without deserving ANY of it and in the moments I recognize it fully, I weep with gratitude in such relief and with the extravagance of it.

And so my gratitude comes with the burden of responsibility. What I have and what I have access to, I must somehow share it…with whoever crosses my path. I must work to dole out the blessing and multiply the thankfulness I feel. I often fail at it and sink into entitlement or complacency, but the goal is that, more often than not, my response in appreciation for what has been granted to me will be more generous than it was the day before. 

Train of Thought

This was a piece of dialogue I wrote, with inspiration from the picture, for our writers' group.

“Come on, Jordan, you can tell me.” Her lower lip plumped out in a pretty pout and something squeezed involuntarily low in his belly.

“It’s not for me to say anything, Cassie.” He twisted his cap and then smacked it on his knee. He stood abruptly and paced a few feet away from her down the tracks. “I would never have come out here with you if I knew you just wanted to pry me for information.” He gazed longingly to the path back to the school through the grove of trees. He sighed heavily and looked down at her smirk and raised eyebrows.

“And just what did you think I wanted you here for?” Her eyes crinkled in humour. “Thought maybe I’d like you all to myself out here and have my way with you?” Cassie giggled as a furious blush crept up Jordan’s throat to his cheeks.

Despite his discomfiture, he took a threatening step towards her which cut off her sniggers. As he hovered over her with his jaw set, her lips curved in a frown and she swallowed hard.

“And maybe, I wanted you all to myself, Cassie,” he snarled. “Maybe you shouldn't let ‘boys’…” he sneered the word, “….take you to isolated, secluded spots.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her up in front of him, her nose a mere inch from his. “And maybe it’s me who wants to have my way with you!” Her breath caught and then heaved double time.

“Let go of me,” she gruffed, and her voice shook. She yanked her arm from him and backed away. “I just wanted to talk to you about your stupid brother,” she spat out through gritted teeth. “He’s been playing me along for weeks and I thought maybe you’d tell me whether he was really interested.” Cassie’s face was as red as his now, but in anger not embarrassment.

“My stupid brother is just that…stupid,” Jordan griped. He took in a deep breath and puffed it out through his nose. “And if you think I’d know anything about what he’s thinking then you know nothing about him.” Cassie’s shoulders dropped and signed deeply as her anger deflated. He shoved his hands deep in his jean pockets and turned away from her, scuffing his feet slowly down the tracks.

“But he must have said something to you about me,” Cassie wheedled in a plaintive tone, as she scurried after him. “Anything?” She scooted in front of him and walked backwards with a hopeful raise of her brows. Jordan looked up and saw her eyes creased and glistening suspiciously and his innards did that same funny turn again.

“Cassie, Todd is a class A jerk. He has a higher opinion of himself than anyone he knows and why wouldn’t he. He knows he looks good to girls. He’s playing for the Jays’ farm team and he’s got money to spread around his backwoods hometown.” As her face fell, Jordan turned away unable to look at her disappointment. “He’s just back for a few weeks before spring training and looking for a party. I’ve watched him lead girls on all the time AND he’s five years older than you. I’ve never heard your name once from his lips.” Her head was down now, her hair falling out of its bun and curtaining her face. “I’m sorry you've wasted your time with me.” Cassie’s lips pursed tightly and she shook her head slowly.

“Oh, it wasn't a waste with you, but apparently I wasted my time with Todd.” Her words were laced with a false lightness. “You've actually confirmed what I've known all along.”

“What’s that,” Jordan queried warily.

She turned quickly forward and stepped up to balance on the rail, her arms held out to steady herself as she stepped along it. “I know I’m not really attractive. I mean I’m not ugly. And I’m a cheerleader and I’m smart and all.” She choked off a laugh. “You know I've worn my mom’s pearls for the past week, put my hair up and dressed super conservative hoping it would make me look older and more sophisticated to Todd. Really I just look like the old maid librarian I’ll probably end up. I’m just not really what guys want.” She drew in a shuddering breath and turned bleary eyes on Jordan.

Jordan coughed lightly to clear the lump in his throat, looked away and in a low voice murmured, “You’re what this guy wants.”

“What did you say?” Cassie twisted toward him and tottered on the rail. Jordan reached out reflexively to steady her.

His hands on her shoulders, he lifted his eyes once he saw her feet were stable, and found his nose just inches from hers. He stared into moss green eyes full of dawning recognition. The moment hung heavy and the feeling from his gut blossoming into his chest which started his heart racing. “I…uh…I…”

Cassie puffed out a laugh and turned away, skittering down the rail. “You’re so cute, Jordan,” she stammered. “Such a nice boy…”

“Boy!” he barked. “For Pete’s sake, Cass, I’m six months younger than you and we’re in the same class. And I’m not…” His thought was interrupted by a vibration under his feet. In the distance, a horn sounded and it confirmed his thought. “Come on, let’s get off the tracks; the train is coming.” He jumped over the rail across from her onto the grassy bank.

“It’s a long way off,” she quipped lightly and continued her balancing act. “What were you saying?”

He frowned, “I don’t remember. Now get off the tracks.”

“You remember…tell me.”

He sighed. “I was going to say that I’m not my brother.” Jordan could feel the rumble on the ground beside the track now. “Get over here, Cass.”

“And in what way are you not like your brother, Jordie,” she bantered in a sing-song voice. The chug of the engine was audible now and the pinprick of the light visible as it rounded the bend a thousand yards away.

“This is not funny, Cass, get over here before I drag you.”

“Just tell me what I want to know.” Her mouth set and her eyes hardened in determination.

“Geez, Cass, I’m not Todd. I like you for you. For who you are….okay?” He swallowed and watched the train approach.

“And who am I, Jordan?”

“Oh God, Cass…come on!” But she just raised her eyebrows in question. “Okay, okay…you’re funny and smart and beautiful and I… and I… CASS!” he pleaded. The train was a hundred yards away.

“And…” she raised her voice over the racket of the oncoming disaster completely fixed on him as he was fixed on the proximity of the train.

“And I …and I...Aaaargh.” Jordan leapt over the rail and launched himself at Cassie bowling them both to the grass on the other side of the tracks, landing with a double ‘oomph’ as they hit the ground. Five seconds later the train thundered by and Jordan wasn't sure if it was the blaring horn or his heart that reverberated in his brain.

He lay on top of Cassie and pushed up on his arms to relieve pressure on her. She stared calmly up at him, brows still raised in question. They stayed like that for a long moment, and after the roar of the clattering railcars passed, she whispered, “And?”

He leaned down and kissed her. 

Theatre Devotional

This is a devotion I wrote nearly five years ago....and I shared with my cast at dinner theatre yesterday before opening night as an encouragement. It is from a group of devotions I wrote called Definitions of God.

September 22, 2009 – Scene

Scene – a division of a play or an opera, a location at which an event or action happens, the view of a place or an activity

Isaiah 41:4  "Who did this? Who made it happen? Who always gets things started? I did. God. I'm first on the scene. I'm also the last to leave.

1Corinthians 1:7 Just think - you don't need a thing, you've got it all! All God's gifts are right in front of you as you wait expectantly for our Master Jesus to arrive on the scene for the Finale.

I love theatre in case I haven’t told you yet. I love the process from beginning to end, from choosing the script, the auditions, the grind of rehearsals, the putting together of the scenes bit by bit, the gelling of the cast into a solid team, the joy of seeing it all come together on stage, the camaraderie of the cast, the thrill of performance…it is incredibly addictive!! I love the way theatre speaks to people; it takes a slice of real life, or what could be real life, and turns it into a scene that moves or enlightens or touches people in ways they did not think was possible. Theatre is powerful in that it tells stories scene by scene, passionate stories, inspirational stories, heartbreaking stories, joyful stories, silly stories, hilarious stories. The scenes of love and war and misfortune and success and delight bring people together in a common experience…you hope they come out nodding their heads in agreement with the scene you have played out before them.

God is on scene. He’s there in every moment playing it out. God has had the script since the beginning. He is the Director of our lives in the most complex scenes and storyline ever put together…imagine interweaving the blocking of the characters of the world over time, so that each person will cross the other’s pass at exactly the right moment to exact just a reaction from those involved. See the sets He has designed to perfection. He has decked us with talents and dressed us in His cloak of grace. The script He has written is better than any movie or play I have ever seen…with intrigue and horror and love and passion and betrayal and sacrifice and romance and out of this world supernatural special effects. Day in and day out God stages an incredible drama…with a Super Hero so amazing He is barely believable but all too real. And all these scenes with come together in the crescendo of the most incredible Finale this world has ever seen. It will bring them to their knees…literally…in amazement and awe and recognition. I can’t wait to see how it all plays out, can you?

Pray today for a role to play and not a spectator seat in the greatest scenes God has ever produced. I love you!!

The Oxymoron of ‘Spring and Summer’ in Alberta

An article I wrote for our church's in-house magazine...

I’ve lived in Alberta for over forty years.  And there are some things I’ve learned about myself and the weather. Seasons are relative and not absolute.

I am never prepared enough for the weather…forecasts notwithstanding.

As spring approaches in Alberta, (albeit almost six weeks after its official start on March 21) and we anticipate summer in all its glory (those three days in late July where the thermometer will top 25C), here are some survival techniques to avoid the seasonal fluster.

Gardening Gambols – I am a self-admitted brown (if not black) thumb and have the capability to kill anything green in less than a week, but my husband is a gardener extraordinaire.  So I’ve picked up a couple of things from him...

1. No bedding out plants until June 1. This used to be the May long weekend, but global warming or the new ice age have messed up the weather patterns. Lovely pansies, lobelia and marigolds embedded prior to June have been shredded by hail, frozen by late frost or flooded out by a misplaced torrential April ‘shower’.  This may all still happen after June 1 but your chances are approximately 5% lower.

2.Tomatoes are to be raised in containers only. My grandfather produced half pound beefsteaks from seed in the ground in April to vine breakers at the end of September, but he lived in Winnipeg. In Alberta you have to start the blighters inside until the requisite June outside date and then bring the stunted green globes into furnace-warmed abodes to ripen in pale glow through the window after September 1…maybe September 2 in a year. 

3. Root vegetables are the only assured chance of gardening success. Hardy carrots, speedy sprouting radishes and tough turnips can germinate in the May climes and survive nestled in rich soil while the elements turmoil above. Even a touch of frost can enhance the flavour of a beastly beet.  But get ‘em out of the ground before the hard frost in mid-September.

Camping Carousals – Our family spent ten summers camping for our annual holidays…and don’t tell me that a lovely 30ft RV or anything else with a solid roof and a heater is camping. Tenting is the only real camping. Albeit, we had every gadget known to mankind to luxuriate the outdoor experience (and packed it in a station wagon and a 4x8 utility trailer to haul it), we still had only a thin piece of nylon between us and the elements. And face it, as parents, when camping, you still do everything that you do at home but with less convenience. A better view perhaps, but living like our pioneer ancestors. No one should ever have to work that hard in a world with remote controls and iPads. Here are some helpful tools to remind you that you’re still in the 21^st century.

1. A sturdy hammer. Handy for breaking the ice on the frozen water supply in the mornings. Have you ever camped in Alberta on the May long weekend? The nights are cold, baby.

2. Clothing for the four seasons…especially if you’re heading to the mountains. Long underwear is essential. Several layers from flimsy tank to t-shirt, sweater, fleece and down-filled coat are also required. In a full twenty-four hours in the Rockies you can experience burning intensity of 30C gamma rays and hail and torrential downpours and slurries and snow and cyclonic air currents. Truthfully it can all happen in a half hour.

3. A map to British Columbia. Hey, I’m happy to call Alberta home but the sad, glorious truth is the other side of the mountain is greener…all year round, in February no less, when, in Alberta, spring is still only a small green glimmer of hope. And the nights are warmer (without six blankets) and the lakes (and they have ones that aren’t man-made) are less glacial and more bathtub-like. This is really no secret. In any campground in BC, on any given long weekend in the summer, the majority of license plates are from Alberta.

Summer Sprees – Every loves to plan festivities in the summer…family reunions, BBQs, weddings, block parties…especially in the wide open spaces. But you may want to consider the following issues to ensure you celebration’s success.

1. Weekday events only. Everyone knows that if you have plans on a weekend in the summer, you’re likely to have some natural disaster come along to interrupt the occasion. Usually during the feeding hour. You can be assured that if it’s 30C and sunny on Friday, Saturday and Sunday will be a sodden, cold mess.  If you must plan for a weekend, then expect a sudden clouding over, ominous thundering and some type of precipitation. Sufficient shelter of a suitable size to cover the gathering is a necessity.

2. Shelter the BBQ. If you ever want anything hot off the coals, then put up, over and around your BBQ, a tarp, a windbreak, a gazebo or better yet, all three. A man’s got do what a man’s gotta do to get his grill on.

3. Please note the exception to the above: During the ten and a half days when my city celebrates the Calgary Stampede, no rules apply. The Greatest Outdoor Show on Earth will take place in disregard to any weather status. Come sleet, snow, rain or hail…and apparently flooding…all events are a go! So provide plastic everything, nail down the condiments and the styro dishes, have shovel and rubber boots handy, and above all get a cover for the Stetson! Yeehaw!

Despite my maligning of the volatility of the environment, I love living in Alberta. And in spite of our love of constantly complaining over it, Albertans are the most caring, friendly and compassionate people I know. I have traveled the world, set foot on six out of seven continents and my own back yard is my favourite place on earth, especially in the summer. Never have I been in a place that could entice me to leave the wide open spaces of the prairies, the majesty of the Rockies, and the vibrant community of the home I love.

Enjoy the seasons, Albertans, whatever they may bring!

Bollywood or Bust

Here's another short story I wrote out of our writers' group. The prompt was to write a short story under 2000 words with the following criteria...
The time 2:12PM must be referred to
There must be mention of word dog
The setting must be outside of North America
The phrase 'Not my cup of tea' must be included
The colour red must be mentioned somewhere
Here's my result...(and it's over 2000 words...I have too many words)

Bollywood or Bust

I'm as much an actress as Lindsay Lohan is a rocket scientist.

So, when a man approached my friends and me in Mumbai café and asked if I wanted to be an extra in a Bollywood film, my Darjeeling snorted out my nose. When he said the two friends I was with could also be extras, I told him acting was not my cup of tea.

I mean, the guy looked more like an Indian street dog than a talent agent. You know what I mean; scrawny, shifty eyes, skittish as a chipmunk with a whole lot less cheek.

But when he said it paid and included free food, I said, ‘Lights, camera, action!’ and ‘Bring on the na’an bread.’ I was all arrogance and pretention. 

Another couple sat in the middle, French, I thought, as they murmured sweet unintelligible nothings in each other’s ears in a lilting accent. But they were each more interested in the other than the rest of the passengers. I turned away in a blush after a few embarrassing seconds of trying to greet them.

Within fifteen minutes of him leaving, I regretted my bravado. My friends laughed and shook their heads my naiveté and timidity.

.

I was nineteen and on my first trip away from home unescorted. I’d been itching to get out from under my parents’ thumbs…not that they were terribly oppressive thumbs…but hey, I was seeing my last year of teenage-hood slipping away. After a year of university, I became aware that adulthood and freedom were not synonymous with each other. Freedom is a total misnomer. It comes with a boatload of obligation. So I took the summer after my freshman year of uni to go on a quest for true freedom.

My parents freaked out. I was shy. I was quiet. I didn’t have adventures. But I had an audacious heart no one could see. I was determined to make it visible. I figured a three month excursion across SE Asia should do the trick.

I’d backpacked through Laos, Vietnam and Cambodia during April and May and met up with Jim and Helen (seriously, those were their names and they were in their early twenties) in Bangkok. They were seasoned travelers from Manchester, England and convinced me that I couldn’t go home without first experiencing India.

They were right. I’d fallen in love with the country. The people were beautiful. Their plight in poverty induced pitiful sympathy but there was a simplicity to life in the sprawling cities.

We’d journeyed by train through most of the central interior from Chennai through Bangalore and Hyderabad and had spent the past week exploring Mumbai in all its colours and chaos.

“What if this guy is some kind of dealer in the sex trade,” I lamented. Adventurous me warred constantly with the me that had nineteen years of experience in caution.

“Oh come on, Kristen, it will be a jolly time,” Jim beguiled. “The bloke’s a bit of a plonker but I’m sure ‘e’s harmless.”

“I’m jazzed to get my Bollywood dance on,” added Helen and she gave us a demo that had me giggling and relaxed my inhibitions.

But the anxiety returned the next day as the three of us waited outside of our hostel for our limo to arrive. I chewed my nails, joked nervously with the couple and checked my watch a dozen times. 2:12PM. Our pick-up was twelve minutes late.

“Maybe they’re not coming,” I commented with a hopeful lift to my eyebrow.

“Indian time is a good bit behind the clock.” Jim grinned. “Don’t fret, love, they’ll be here shortly.”

And the ‘limo’ did arrive shortly…in the form of an ancient Matador van that may have once been green but was exhibiting more in the rusty hues at present. Our weasel-like agent also doubled as the chauffeur as he beckoned us aboard with a toothy grin matching the colour of his vehicle. 

We weren’t the only recruits. A trio of rowdy Spaniards were caroling a lovely Mediterranean tune in the rear seat. They hoisted their Kingfishers in salute as we entered, before downing the brew and grabbing another from the 12-pack under their seat. 

Jim sat up front by our driver and engaged him in conversation, and I slid over the ratty seat to the window with Helen beside me. I was still unsure of what to expect but I felt comforted that if I were incarcerated or abducted there would at least be witnesses. 

Between the raucous warbling, moist lip smacking and the ancient motor rattling and groaning, conversation seemed unlikely so I turned to the sights out the window.

Mumbai passed by in flickering vignettes. A city of islands, lakes, rivers and oceans, water could be seen from almost any point in the metropolis. One had to travel over a bridge to get anywhere…and never quickly. Most of the vehicles looked like the one we were in, but all their horns were in working order.

The city was a study of contrasts, from skyscrapers, billion dollar bridges and elaborate temples, to shanty slums and garbage infested streets. Eighteen million people, twenty thousand crushed into every square kilometer, in constant 30C heat made for an effluvium of human perfume. In our van alone it was crushing. On the streets, it overwhelmed to a point where it became inconsequential…especially when an undertone of refuse and human waste were added to the bouquet.

My uneasiness continued the longer we traveled. The perspiration that dripped from my brow, slickened between my breasts and made my cotton tank stick to my back was not only from the heat. The traffic was slow but when we pulled over in front of a spice market about forty-five minutes into our travels, I was beyond relieved.

It was crowded. I didn’t mind. Good, I thought, more witnesses to the calamities about to befall me.

We piled out of the van with the encouragement of Weasel-Face, (I wished he would stop smiling. It was so creepy and his breath was enough to bowl one over) and to the continued songs of the Madrid trio. But mushy face Couple Provencal finally made their introductions, Adeline and Georges, from Avignon. Honeymooners in India? Seriously, just go to Paris.

“Wonder if they’re filming a dance spot in the market?” Helen pondered with a smirk and gave her derriere a shake with her hands flung in the air. Jim giggled and wrapped an arm around her waist.

Any fears I had were forgotten momentarily in the sight and sound of the market as we trundled into a festival of spice. A rainbow of zesty aromas and tinctures greeted us...emerald green, scarlet red, golden yellow and burnished orange…arced in rows of huge baskets and burlap sacks, spilling out into the pathway. Saffron, turmeric, cardamom, cloves, licorice, mint and cinnamon tickled my olfactory senses as I closed my eyes and inhaled. And proceeded to sneeze a half dozen times.

Agent-man led us through a maze of aisles, I lost track of the turns, and headed us at last to a small café deep in the bowels of the market. He nodded and bowed a few times to the proprietor then shuttled us to a couple of rickety tables, squinting his eyes and panting.

‘We feed you now, most helpful clients. Then we make movies. Chai and gulab jamun fill you up, yes?” His cheeks rose so high in a grin that his eyes disappeared. It wasn’t attractive.

The café was dinky and dirty and I tried not to wonder what the origin might be of the water that made our chai, but it was fragrant and the sugar and milk seemed harmless enough. The little lava balls soaked in sweet rose water made my saliva glands ache and my teeth hurt.

The eight of us were crammed around two iron tables in a single market stall deep in the centre of the market. It was so humid and confined as to induce claustrophobia. Weasel-Agent was nowhere in sight.

Perhaps this would be my fate. A wayward traveler destined to forever drink chai and eat sweets in the Lalbaug Masala Gully, lost in the maze of spices because she couldn’t find her way out.

No one else seemed concerned. The Cantantes had whipped out the weed and were happily puffing over their tea in between verses. The Avignon couple were…well… making out in their national style, teacups still in hand. Jim and Helen were sipping and nibbling, excited for the adventure. And trying to encourage me. They were so brave.

“You’re safe as a bug, love.” Helen cajoled. “We’ll not let a thing happen to ya.”

Agent Chauffeur came back a short while later as I was licking my sticky fingers for the hundredth time, accompanied by a burly sourpuss who looked like he walked right out of the Mumbai Mafia. He was introduced as Wali. That sent the troubadours into giggle fits and they started calling him Wall-E with cartoon voices.

Wall-E said nothing, his face a mask of stoic resolution, but waved us all back into the market as Agentman trailed behind us.

More twists and turns through the market brought us to a covered alleyway, piled high on each side with rotting refuse, and my heart started to pound an erratic beat. We exited the alley onto a street lined with multi-storied buildings and filled with foot traffic…literally people on foot walking amid the vehicles in the centre of the street. And the walkers moved faster.

Our line thinned out and I wasn’t sure what I was more afraid of…that I’d lose sight of my group or that I wouldn’t. But Weasel-Face kept pushing from behind as Wall-E drove his convoy into a single story whitewash, windowless, that seemed fabricated with particle board.

“This doesn’t look like any studio, I’ve ever seen,” I murmured in Helen’s ear, as we backed up in a narrow hallway. She rolled her eyes.

“And how many studios have you seen in India, love?” She giggled and threw her arm around my shoulders. “I’m sure we’re heading into an opium den, right now.” I frowned sheepishly and sighed out my tension.

Wall-E opened a door to our right and we all tumbled into pitch blackness. We could see little with only the dim light of the bulb seeping in from the entrance and when the door slammed shut we were completely blind. My head went woozy as adrenaline shot through my blood.

‘Mon Dieu,” whispered Georges and even the Spanish trio burst out in expletives as they started stumbling around the space. Helen grabbed my hand and called out for Jim, who yelled into the darkness.

“Where’s the bloody movie set then ya grotty arseholes?” he bellowed. “Turn on the fricken lights or we’ll do ya up like the kippers, eh!”

“Bugger!” Helen mumbled under her breath. My blood was echoing so hard in my head, I was sure if I uttered a sound, I would faint.

“No, no, good clients. We make movie now.” Weasel-Ass’ disembodied voice floated down as from an angel on high. Before he’d finished his speech, lights flashed and a large screen was illuminated on the wall opposite the door.

Weasel-Agent was shadowed in relief against it and we could now see we were in a large empty warehouse. A pair of long tables were situated in the middle of the room with microphones on stands upon it and metal folding chairs behind them.  

“See, see? We make movie now, good clients.” That disgusting wide-mouth grin came out again as he hurried us into the chairs. Wall-E appeared out of the darkness with a stack of papers and he placed a bundle in front of each of us.

“Good clients, we make movie now…in English.” Weasel-Agent clapped his hands in glee and swooped a hand out to the screen as images flashed upon it.

A glance at the papers and a good deal of confusing conversation later, we determined we were to follow along on the script before us and dub this soon to be blockbuster action/adventure into North American ‘English’. Wall-E and Weasal-Face were gonna be millionaires.

We jumped in and read the scripts against what they showed us on the screen while Wall-E recorded what I am sure was the worst soundtrack ever. Add to the twisted grammar in the dialogue, Spanish and French speakers who sounded at times like English was their sixth language and you’ll have a good idea of the quality. But it was fun and terribly funny.

We spent the next two hours at the microphones howling our way through some of the most hilarious English translations of Hindi I have ever read.

 “When the girl on the ground gets angry ... then she will rip your pants off.”

“Before life eats you ... you should drink life.”

“In politics all work is done with love and peace.”

But Wall-E and Weasel-Face seemed pleased with the results.

And as the drums and horns and flutes and sitars began to blare in the final scene of the movie, Helen squealed in delight and the eight of us, kicked backed our chairs and shimmied and shook our booties to the requisite Bollywood dance finale.

The Spanish trio grew to a full-blown choir as we joined in their song on the van ride back to our commodes, three thousand rupees in each of our pockets.

We’d had a ‘gobsmacking’ good time. My body was sound and I was going home with a wildly crazy memory. I hadn’t been abducted or sold into slavery. I was not in jail or been forced into an opium addiction.

My voice, however, had been immortalized in Indian film, saying,

“I can give you beyond limits ... and I can hit you with my slippers too.”

Bollywood or Bust!

The Sinking of the Rock

I am part of a writers' group that meets once a month and we take on a short story challenge with a different prompt each month. I thought I'd share a few of the results. 

The first prompt was the phrase: 'The sinking of the rock." This is what I came up with. Enjoy. 

The Sinking of the Rock

“What the hell were you thinking, Ethan?” Avery’s eyebrows arched an inch over his thick framed glasses in surprise. They almost touched his hairline, which receded further than was natural for a 12 year old and overly exposed due his Brylcreemed sweep-back. Ivy-league wannabe.

“Obviously I wasn’t thinking. Not about Marcus Carraig, that’s for sure.” I sighed. “He was all over Kalyn and then he was mouthing off at her. What was I supposed to do?”

“Uh, duh, brainiac. Keep your mouth shut and walk away.” Avery whipped off his glasses and pinched his nose while he closed his eyes in pretentious distress. Seriously, no pre-teen should act like a preppy lawyer. Pretender. “Ethan, you’re going to need to come up with a plan that saves your face and saves face. Carraig has been wrestling since he was in diapers. Getting your nose pulverized isn’t going make any points with Kalyn, or make you any prettier.”

            I groaned. “You’re a lot of help.”  I adjusted my backpack in discomfort, but it had nothing to do with the fifty pounds of textbooks inside. “She’s just so sweet and nice and cute. And he was saying filthy things just because she didn’t want to be mauled in public. I had to do something.”  I pulled at the hem of my plaid button down, and kicked a pebble down the front steps of the school entrance, scuffing my new Nikes in the effort.  “It’s all for nothing anyway. She doesn’t even know I’m alive.”

            “Ha, well, maybe she’ll pay attention when you’re dead and it won’t be all in vain.” Avery ruffled my blonde curls, adding further disorder to their mayhem. Who did he think he was, my mother? “Perhaps she’ll cry at your funeral. Closed casket though, cause your face will be too messed up.”

I grimaced and swatted at him but he jumped away. He adjusted his messenger bag over his leather jacket and pushed his specs back up his nose. He didn’t even need glasses. Faker.  “I gotta get to class. I’ll meet you here at three and you can tell me your plan.”  He slapped me on the back and smiled. It almost choked me up. At least he thought I could come up with a plan. Best, best friend a guy could have.

            “Ya, I’ll let ya know.” I hiked my backpack again, yanked my chinos up over my narrow hips, and headed off to class.

            I spent the better part of that morning wrapped up in my own head, with thoughts of Kalyn and replays of the look on her face when Marcus started calling her names. I’d fallen hard three years ago when Kalyn had given me a Valentine in the 5^th grade that had hearts all over it and was signed, ‘Love, Kalyn.’ It didn’t matter that my name wasn’t on it and it was likely a generic extra she’d thrown in my sparsely decorated paper bag.

But it made me take notice of her… straight, shimmery brown hair, pale green eyes and freckles. It wasn’t only how she looked but also how she smiled all the time and was always nice to people and kind. I’d never seen her be a catty witch like so many pre-pubescent girls morphed into by the time they hit junior high. I was afraid to be in the same room with most of them.

            It put me in a funk for weeks when Marcus Carraig noticed Kalyn last year. I bottomed out when she noticed him back and started hanging out with him and being nice to him, of all people.

Marcus was perfectly situated to be a bully. In the 8^th grade he eclipsed 5’8” and likely topped out at 135 or 140. At twelve and a half I was 5’2” and 88 pounds but there were even worse ways to not measure up. 

Marcus embodied the bad boy that every girl fell for. He’d been wrestling guys two years older for two years, dressed even more GQ than Avery and the guy rode a motorcycle to school every day. Granted it was on the back of his 16-year-old brother’s Honda but it still upped the cool factor for 13 year olds.

            Now Marcus had noticed me and in the worst way possible. I had been sitting in the commons that morning, wolfing my third granola bar and drooling over Kalyn on the bench across from me, when he’d plunked down beside her. He didn’t even say hello, just started nuzzling at her neck and panting away. She’d giggled and pushed him away but when she’d turned to him, he was all over her, mauling her, like ALL over her… It would have been gross if it had been anyone. But it was Kalyn. As I watched her react, all I could hear was the roar in my ears and my face burned with indignity for her. She pushed him away and didn’t even yell at him; she just got all teary-eyed and said his name in that disappointed way. Marcus just lost it.

            I’m couldn’t recall exactly what Marcus said but his face, when he spewed at her, will be forever entrenched in my mind. It was as malice and foul and belligerent as the words he literally spat at her. I just reacted without thought or reason.

            “Hey, you can’t talk to her like that!” I had no memory of moving but I stood in front of Kalyn and under Marcus. Towering over me, each of the six extra inches of height was blazingly apparent. “She has every right to tell you to back off.” It was eerily quiet in the pre-class conclave of the main foyer of the school.

            Marcus’ lip curled in derision and something entered his eye that I’m pretty sure wasn’t fear. More like a thirst for my death to slake his blood rage. “You pickin’ a fight with me, runt?”

            “Ya, if you don’t lay off her,” I shouted in a lapse of sanity.

He grabbed the front of my shirt and hauled me up against the wall. I was exposed as the fraud of a hero I parodied, in more ways than one. My shirt was rucked up around my neck revealing my feeble physique and a lack of oxygen caused my face to blush like the schoolboy I was. My eyes watered from pain and the whiff of sour milk as Carraig breathed his threats over me.

            “I’m gonna put your nose in the back of your throat, dumb ass.” I couldn’t look at Kalyn but just nodded affirmation, my lips blue, agreeing to anything in my shame and asphyxiation.

            “Carraig, put him down.” An avenging angel in the form the morning supervisor restored me. My vital organs were re-nourished with the return of blood flow to my body when Marcus released me to slide down the wall to the bench. 

            “After school, you pathetic wimp. Creekside.”  My breath left me in a whoosh again as Carraig rammed an elbow in my gut.

           

Even three hours later at lunch, I still imagined myself short of oxygen and I rubbed my chest sympathetically as I walked into the cafeteria. I wasn’t the slightest bit hungry but grabbed a pop and sat down at an empty table.

            Less than three minutes later, no fewer than eight parasites were hanging over me, languishing in the drama of my imminent demise.

            “Are ya gonna fight him?”

            “Man, you gotta run or he’s gonna pulverize you.”

            “You’re going down, brother.”

            “You can take him…if you can get someone to hold him down.”

            “Carraig’s a brute, man, but you just have to be faster than him.”

            “Seriously, you’re all so supportive.” I stomped out of the caff, but I could still hear them taking bets on how long it would take for Marcus to knock me out.

            I pushed out of the school doors and into the back parking lot, which was a mistake. I could see the arena of my coming slaughter. Beyond the school fields there was a narrow river that ran through the property. At a curve in its path, the waters pooled into a small inlet and the spot was sheltered from view by a thick copse of trees. Students engaged in numerous illicit activities at Creekside, as the location was called, while escaping prying eyes. It was the perfect spot for an evisceration. 

            I plopped down hard on the parking lot fence and reviewed my situation. I could run home at the bell I supposed but I wouldn’t escape my fate. Marcus wouldn’t forget and he’d corner me somewhere. I might get social points for at least showing up, for the three minutes it would take him to knock me flat. My rank on the adolescent societal ladder would hover somewhere between wuss and sissy, merely one rung up from coward.

As a wrestler, Marcus was big and strong, and I couldn’t let him get hold of me. If he got a grip on any part, I would be down for the count. Maybe I could be a little faster than him, and avoid him for a while, but I doubted I would evade the inevitable for long. I was calculating how long I would have to last with Marcus to avoid social obliteration and maybe achieve survivor status and a grudging respect, when a fleeting thought drifted in. I caught it and entertained it for a moment. As I mulled over a new possibility, my mouth twitched at the corners, then bloomed into a full-fledged grin at the prospect and a slight hope.

####

I stuffed my backpack into my locker and plucked at my shirt as it clung to me. The last bell of the day rang and a cold sweat broke on my brow. I checked my cell phone for the first time since the morning and I had twenty new texts. A record. As I scrolled through them, I could tell it was more of the same from lunch and I groaned. But my eye caught an unfamiliar number without a contact name and I brought up the message.

“Ethan, it’s Kalyn. I really appreciate you sticking up for me this morning when Marcus was being a jerk. You don’t have to do this. He’s just doing the stupid boy thing. ” I swallowed hard and blinked. My heart thudded in my chest and I think I hyperventilated a little. This was a great day! I had Kalyn’s number!

She was wrong of course. I did have to do this, now more than ever, because she was paying attention. And because I was a stupid boy too.  I texted her back.

“NP It’s fine.” I contemplated before hitting send. Seemed legit. Succinct. Understated. I pressed ‘send’ and immediately regretted it. Before I could add to this embarrassment of a conversation, Avery whipped me around.

“What are you doing? You gotta get out of here before he catches up with you.” I shoved the cell in my pocket.

“I’m not running.” I was indignant. “Seriously, you don’t think very highly of me.” I stalked off toward the back of the school. Avery skipped along beside me.

“I can’t let you do this, bro. It’s not good for your health.”

“Ya, well social suicide wasn’t on my list of things to do today, either.  So I’m picking the lesser evil.” Avery groaned but shut up.

The two of us marched across the field and like the Pied Piper, pupils filed out of the school woodwork to the siren song of my looming demise. By the time we reached the copse around Creekside there were nearly fifty spectators lining the half-moon clearing around the elliptical pool at the edge of the river. The willows hung out over the water and a floating dock bobbed at the shore of the narrow beach. It was a lovely spot for a butchering.

            I had about three minutes of hope as I stood by the dock with Avery, when there was no sign of Marcus Carraig. I revelled in the fantasy that he had been too afraid to show or at the least had forgotten about me. No such luck. 

            He strode through the trees and waded through the crowd in cocky confidence and my gullet soured.  I pursed my lips at the acrid taste of fear in my mouth. Marcus’ lip curled at the sight of me standing there and barked a laugh.

            “You got balls showing up, kid.” Kid. Seriously, he was six months older than me. “I’ll make this quick.”

            I spied Kalyn at the edge of the crowd behind Marcus, her brow furrowed in worry, I wasn’t sure for who. But I squared my narrow shoulders and straightened to my full five foot two…and a half. “Fine. Let’s do this.” I stripped off my button down, folded it and handed it to Avery, who gaped at me in horrid fascination. I pulled off shoes, then chinos revealing my gym shorts underneath. I flung them over Avery’s head.

            “What the hell are you doing, punk?” Marcus’ face was contorted in amused fascination.

            “I thought you wrestled,” I quipped.  A smile bloomed on Marcus’ face and he shook his head.

            “Oh, I do, punk and you are gonna regret this.” He stripped off his jacket, threw it at one of his buddies and stripped off his t-shirt. There were a few fluttery sighs in the crowd.  I cringed with the metallic taste of blood in my mouth as I bit my tongue. I clasped my arms and rubbed them, chilled in the air under the trees.

            Marcus hunched and started to circle around me. I mimicked his movements but tried to stay well away from him, stumbling now and then as I backed away. I had my back to the crowd, his to the water, when he charged. I dodged right and slipped by him but he reached out a hand to grab my flailing arm. It slipped from his grasp.

            “What the…?” I stood huffing by the water while Marcus stared confused at his hand, rubbing his fingers together. “You friggen bugger, you greased yourself!” he growled.

I smirked a little as I thought of myself in last period half-naked in the Home Ec. Kitchen with a bottle of olive oil. I snickered while the crowd tittered, but that was the wrong reaction. Marcus’ face fell like rain on a dark day and he thundered a roar as he came after me.

            I hopped to the right again, over a corner of the dock where it rested on the shore, and his fingers pinched at the loose skin on my side but again they couldn’t gain purchase. I stood ankle deep in the water on the far side of the dock, the black-grey sand mud oozing up between my toes. I stooped and grabbed two massive handfuls and fired them one after the other, muddy missiles, toward my target. One missed completely, but the other splatted directly on the mark in the middle of Marcus’ chest, leaving a dripping, mucky mess, sliding down to his pants. 

            He launched himself at me and hit me, head and shoulders, in my abdomen, and any general feeling of well-being left on a whoosh of all my wind. I gasped and wheezed as we fell into a foot of water, hard on my tailbone with Marcus grasping at my hips. I flicked my hair and the water out of my eyes, only to see the front end of a fist right before it crushed into my nose. A crack thundered through my skull and I felt liquid drain over my lip and tasted the salty brine of blood.

I kicked, and back-peddled and slithered out of his grip but left my gym shorts in his hand. I crab-walked into deeper water where I could stand without revealing my tighty whiteys. I knew I was trapped.

            I could float out into the river and be found days later, paled skin and bloated in death. I could walk out onto shore in humiliation. I looked up to the crowd and saw Kalyn, mouth in a firm tight line and eyes wide in fear and…something else.  I stood with the current gently swirling around my hips, blood dripping and rippling little pools of the water in front of me. I braced myself for the beating.

            Marcus, in a fit of rage and frustration, threw my shorts on the shore and bulldozed through the water toward me. I set my jaw, clenched my hands into fists, bowed my head and closed my eyes in a brief supplication to the patron saint of wimpy teenagers. When I opened them, my answer to prayer was before me.

            Slithering on the surface of the water was the longest water bandit I had ever seen. At least four feet of harmless water snake but slippery, dark and glittering in the light fluttering through the tree branches overhead. It looked like salvation to me. I didn’t question providence but grabbed the body around its substantial middle and flung it with everything I had at the oncoming behemoth.

            I couldn’t have had better aim if I’d really tried.

            The snake’s body hit Marcus smack in the middle of his nose and immediately wrapped itself in indignation around his head, curling over his ears and through his hair, its head hissing over his forehead. Marcus squealed, as high pitched and girly as my six-year-old sister in the midst of a hissy fit over the denial of chocolate ice cream on a weeknight. He twirled and twisted in the water, half-blinded by the body of the snake, clawing at his head and face.

            “Get it off, me! Get it off me!” he squealed as he thrashed by me into the deeper water.

As the besmirched bully passed by, I was propelled by chance and opportunity for escape, to the riverbank, where the trees might hide my indiscretion.  I crawled up behind the trunk of the massive willow whose branches arced out over the Creekside pool. Wrapped around one of the more substantial limbs was the water rope that the brave and fun-loving used to swing out and launch themselves into the deeper waters, where Marcus now stood peeling the water bandit off his face.

In a flash of brilliance I scrambled up the tree and unleashed the water rope. I gripped tight, took my target in sight and catapulted out of the tree on the end of the rope, curving around in a widely arcing swing. I tucked my knees up tight to my chest and as I sketched low over the water, shot my feet straight out and hit Marcus square in the chest just as he threw the water snake off his head.

I swear, he flew five feet, back arched, feet flying high in the air with the wide-eyed surprised look of the rarely defeated, before he crashed head first into deep water, feet askew and awkward.

I dropped off the rope as it rounded to the dock and ended up on my knees on the wooden platform. The crowd was hooting and hollering and at first I thought it was mocking. But when they started to chant my name, I presumed that they had appreciated my ingenuity in the face of adversity. I fist pumped both hands in the air and roared, tighty whiteys notwithstanding.

Avery walked up the dock with my clothes, as Marcus’ buddies helped him out of the water groaning and sputtering, to jeers of ‘Squealer!’ and ‘Afraid of a little snake, Carraigh’ and ‘He dunked ya good, Marcus.’

Avery shook his head and stood in front of me as I pulled on my pants.

“Nice swinging, Tarzan.” I just smirked and shrugged. “You know what Carraig means. Ethan?”

“Huh, what do you mean?” I stuttered.
            “Well, Carraig is an Irish name. It means rock.” I just shook my head and raised my eyebrows, not sure what he was getting at. Avery smiled. “He sure sunk like one.”

I laughed and Avery wrapped an arm around my neck. We walked off the dock towards Kalyn, waiting with a sweet smile on the shore of my success. 

The Becoming of An Author...how it happens...at least to me.

Last night I put the pen away (figuratively) and made the decision to be finished on the final draft of this first book. Revisions could go on forever but at some point I needed to call it done as good as I can get it.

I've never cared before now to published.

The calling on my life for many years has been to love, support, encourage and love young people and God has used me to do that in many forms...youth sponsor, drama, camp, mission trips, mentoring, speaking, teaching, writing devotions, prayer counselling...and in a hundred other little ways.

But nearly two years ago I began to feel God's niggling at my heart again that things were about to change. Not my calling, just the method of delivery.

He told me to write a book...well, eight of them actually...why would it be just one?  He wanted me to concentrate my efforts on a story that He laid in my lap...fantastical, allegorical, in a Kingdom that mirrors His own.

I resisted because, like most of His nigglings for me, this frightened me...I would have to stretch myself to His will again...and that's often painful. And it has been...I've learned much, again. I was to step aside from nearly every ministry...and those were considerable. All of the things listed above gave me great joy...they were hard work, but I found value and purpose in what I was doing. I knew I was in the sweet spot of where God wanted me to be.

But instead He led me to believe that I was sit in a room and start from little more than a fuzzy idea to build not just a story but a world. I'm a very relational person and so to spend hours in solitary (confinement?) writing for no-one but myself (initially) was not on a high list of my priorities...but it became one.

I spent 40 weeks just planning...eight books, chapter by chapter plotting, character sketches, setting descriptions and research. I built a fantasy kingdom in my head so vivid I could (can) see it in startling detail with characters so animated they became (are) real to me, my friends and enemies, loving and hating them. All this before I ever wrote a word!

Last April (2013) after all that work, I sat down to start the writing part and I was terrified that I wouldn't be able to do it. I was pretty sure I couldn't and I had balked and stalled on God. I had resisted and only half obeyed Him.. I had kept my favourite ministries, the ones that fed me, and gave what time was left to the writing. But God had other plans. While some ministries He ripped from my (death gripped) hands, others He allowed me, but EVERYTHING in that year in ministry was so difficult...obstacles, resistance, complications...it was like slogging through quicksand. I got the point, painfully, tearfully, but it took until August to complete my commitments.

But when you finally come to obedience to God's will, things fall into place. From April to August while still embroiled in ministry I should have put aside, I wrote 20,000 words...when I was fully obedient from the end of August to the middle of October, I wrote 60, 000. The first 20,000 were disjointed and messy and required ten times more editing (no exaggeration) than the last 60,000. The last four months, I've done four full edits/revisions and added 13,000 words after cutting 3000, fed the book through a dozen beta readers, reviewed their evaluations and put in another few revisions and applied the final spit and polish line/copy edit (which is the devil's work for sure, ugh) in the last six days.

While said novel was still in first draft, I went to a writers' conference where I was offered an open invitation (through a verbal pitch to an editor who doesn't even look at young adult fiction) to submit a full manuscript (when polished, however long it took) to her (she's the commissioning editor for commercial fiction for a MAJOR publisher) for her to forward it with a personal note to their YA editor, who she thought I'd get along fabulously with. This NEVER happens. Publishers of this size rarely take un-agented manuscripts never mind in genres not their own.

And that's where the manuscript is right now. I sent that email today.

 I have fallen in love with His will for me again. This was what I was supposed to do. Whether this publisher makes an offer for the book or not, whether I get a few dozen rejections from agents, I feel certain He will eventually lead me to submit the work to where He wants it and where it will get the attention it needs. I feel God's promises in this, not just for the book, but for me as well in the heart of His calling to me. This book will give me an opportunity to speak about Him to a broader audience of the young people He continue to draws me too. Any doubt I encounter (sometimes on a daily basis) is washed away in remembrance of the bazillion times He has proven Himself to me...over and over and over. So where You lead I will follow.

I'll let you know how it goes.

In the meanwhile you could pray (if you do that sort of thing) for His will over this work of fiction. I'd be most appreciative.