Author: jen

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Seasons

Filming a b-roll segment for Easter worship

Six months ago, I had my feet firmly planted in the written word. I was writing every day and attending writing workshops. I even formed a critique group with some local writers to boost my writing game. My daily routine consisted of journaling, editing manuscripts, outlining story concepts, reading books on writing, researching material for my own work, and a healthy dose of recreational reading. I had set some ambitious goals for 2020 where my writing was concerned and up until about March, I was tracking well with them.

We all know what happened in March: A GLOBAL PANDEMIC. Who could have seen that coming? At first, it wasn’t anything I needed to worry about. I was a full-time writer after all. My daily routine was one of solitude, so all it really meant was that my husband and I would get more take out as opposed to dining out.

After about a week of lockdown, I had trouble falling asleep one night and my mind did what it usually does: it occupied itself with a ridiculous number of things that would continue to keep me awake rather than help me fall asleep. At this point, it was becoming clear we would be in this lockdown status for at least a few weeks and my mind wandered over to my church community. I had been planning a worship service for our youth for Easter Sunday, so worship had been on my mind. Then I began to think about how my church might worship if we couldn’t meet in person.

What if there was something I could do while we waited for a safe return to church? It quickly dawned on me what I needed to do. I threw off the covers and went to my computer and sent an email to my pastor. I don’t know why the Holy Spirit insisted I do that instead of waiting until morning but I’ve long since learned to just go with Him.

Many years ago, I fancied myself a filmmaker. I was good at it but making movies didn’t pay the bills and my circle of filmmaking friends began to disburse, myself included. I kept a camera and some other gear, but it had been years since I’d used any of it for regular work. I figured the pandemic would be a great opportunity to dust it all off and make a few videos for my church while we were in this temporary status…

Temporary, such a deceptive word.

Here we are in July; not weeks but months later with many more months on the horizon. I’m still writing every day though only in my journal. I’m not outlining stories or editing manuscripts; I’m editing videos and mixing music. My days of solitude have been traded in for production shoots and recording sessions. My church sanctuary has been turned into a sound stage where I film segments for online worship. I’m learning the ins and outs of audio engineering so I can record our worship band. I’ve had to relearn aspects of video production as tools and technology have come a long way since my days of making movies.

At first, I struggled. I felt guilty for working so hard on my writing only to abandon it so quickly to answer the call for video ministry. But my pastor sister reminded me that we all have seasons in our lives. More than a decade ago, I was in a filmmaking season which prepared me for the work I am doing today. My writing isn’t going anywhere. In fact, I’ve been writing since about the sixth grade and throughout all the many seasons in my life, I have returned to it numerous times as I’m sure I will again.

I hate wearing face masks, I’m saddened that museums and libraries remain closed, I’m frustrated that I can’t play boardgames with my friends. This pandemic has thrown a wrench in everyone’s plans, so I am no different.

And yet..

I have rediscovered my love of video production. I have been reminded how simple, little elements of picture and sound can be combined to create beautiful and meaningful works of art. I have seen the transformative power worship can bring to a faith community in forced isolation. It occurred to me I was prepared for this time, this season in my life. God made sure I would know what to do when this time came, and I am grateful to have a purpose when so many are lost. I am looking forward to the day when I can return to my writing solitude but until then, I am choosing to find the joy in this most unusual of seasons.

End Transmission.

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365

Since you took your last breath, the Earth has spun on her axis 365 times and has traveled something like 584 million miles around the sun. More than 8,760 hours have passed since you’ve been gone and while the world literally moved on, I haven’t.

I hear your voice in my head like I just talked to you. I feel your presence like you’re in the next room, but you’re not. Maybe that’s why I haven’t let you go; because I still sense you close. Yet you shed this mortal coil and traveled to what comes next; I’m still here, we’re still here.

I thought of you today, day 365. Did I think of you the other 364? Many days I know I did but was it every day? You’re on my mind more in your absence than when you were here. I had a dream about you last night, I do that more too. How am I more aware of you in death than I was in life? You are my brother, you deserved more of my attention when you were here.

But you aren’t here. We had Easter and birthday parties and Thanksgiving and Christmas and you weren’t there glad-handing and making your presence known only to slip out unnoticed before the close of festivities. And still I heard your voice, sensed your presence, even though my worldly eyes never fell upon your ever familiar face. I know you were there, I know you are here. And yet, not.

The world has spun 365 times and traveled so far in space since your heart beat it’s last; it hasn’t been the same since.

End Transmission

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Voice: A Writing Exercise

As part of developing my writing craft, I often attend workshops and writers groups. Recently at one of my monthly meetings we discussed voice. Each writer’s voice is unique and is compiled of things like word choice and syntax. Just like each writer’s voice is unique, the voice of each character they create also needs to be distinctive.

To demonstrate this difference of voice, we did a written exercise. We were to write a simple paragraph describing the last time we went out to eat. This initial paragraph was to be as absent of any voice as possible.

My example:

We went out to eat last week. I ordered a club sandwich. My husband ordered fish tacos. It took a long time for our food to arrive. We took our dessert to go.

We were then instructed to rewrite the paragraph from a different perspective and infuse a unique voice. We were given five different perspectives and in the time allotted I managed only two. Here they are:

A foreigner learning local dining customs:

I was new to the planet and Jen suggested we enjoy some of the local cuisine. I’d never had human food but I was hungry and eager to experience the dining customs of our youngest ally. We arrived by ground car at the local eatery; a place called The Cheesecake Factory. Jen’s eyes seemed to sparkle at the mention of cheesecake. Upon entering the establishment, we were quickly ushered to a table and given a dish called bread and butter. Jen explained this was a kind of appetizer. It was bland for my alien taste buds but Jen devoured hers in short order. When the servant arrived, Jen ordered a dish she felt palatable for me; something called ‘Fish Tacos’. She seemed impatient with the length of time it took for our food to arrive but I enjoyed watching the humans interact. I observed that once food arrived, conversation ceased until consumption was complete and I rather liked talking to Jen. The fish tacos were pleasant enough but my appetite wasn’t satiated and I wanted more. Jen, however, said she would burst if she ate anything further yet ordered something called cheesecake to take with us. Upon returning to her home, we shared the dessert. When I bring this marvel called cheesecake back to my world, I will become a legend among my people.

A teenager on a date:

I couldn’t stop my hands from trembling so I kept them in my pocket as we walked into the restaurant.

“You cold?” he asked.

I nodded. I wasn’t but I was too nervous to speak. Jason and I had been friends for a long time but this dinner we were about to share would be the beginning of something new. The hostess took us to a small table out in the open and I felt the eyes of everyone upon me. Thankfully the dimly lit restaurant kept the flushing of my cheeks from being too obvious. I buried my head in the menu though I already knew what I wanted. I wanted him but I would have to wait for my dessert.

End Transmission.

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Perception

I learned long ago that perception matters; perception can mask truth. I have known this and even I can fall victim to false perception. I was once again reminded of this after a baseball game.

What’s more American than baseball? At a World Series game in America, you will have as diverse a group as any. Military and civilian, Democrat and Republican, citizen and immigrant will gather to watch the game.

When the current President of the United States attended such a game last week, the behavior of those gathered was not what we’ve come to expect when DT stands in front of a crowd. They booed him and chanted “lock him up” in anticipation of an impeachment.

There was outcry from his supporters calling it un-American and unprecedented. There were those who argued the office of the president deserves respect.

Me personally? It brought a smile to my face.

Here is what we’ve come to expect when Donald Trump gives a speech to a large crowd: fandom. The crowd cheers at his every unintelligible utterance as if it’s from God. They wear their red MAGA hats and hold signs and shout derisions at his enemies. It’s disgusting really. We see these rallies on the news all the time. They aren’t ever that big but they are made to look big by cheating camera angles and clever lighting. The perception created is one of immense and overwhelming support. We never see descent at a Trump rally because dissention is quickly snuffed out by security.

This president surrounds himself with yes-men (and I do mean men) and sycophants. He has neatly insulated himself from the broad spectrum of Americans and has no idea how the majority truly feel despite what polls and approval ratings say. He doesn’t see it so it doesn’t exist. What he does see in the media is dismissed as fake news.

This perception doesn’t match reality. This gives him and his supporters the feeling of majority. It is a false perception and as proof we have what happened at the World Series game last week. When a range of Americans gather, those who support 45 aren’t the roaring red hats concentrated at one of his rallies. They are the minority and always have been despite his electoral victory in 2016.

The majority of Americans didn’t want him as their president and didn’t vote for him. The office of the president should be respected but that respect doesn’t extend to the man occupying that office. If Trump made more public appearances in front of crowds like that at the World Series, I suspect we’d hear a lot more booing!

End Transmission.

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Faded Image

Sedro-Woolley, WA

The following story is fictional and inspired by the image above:

My mind is all over the place as I sort through the worn box from my past. I just unearthed it from my office closet where it hadn’t seen the light of day in nearly twenty-five years. It’s filled with letters and trinkets from my college days. When I come across the photo, I stop short. The box slides from my lap and falls to the floor but I make no effort to stop it. The photo has my complete attention.

I remember the day I took it. It was the weekend before graduation and the six of us were inseparable back then. We had just finished the last of our exams and decided to go for a hike. I fight the lump in my throat as my memory of that day surfaces. You’d think after so many years, the sting would have lessened but it hasn’t.

As I gaze at the fading image, I can’t help but think of the person I was when I took the picture and how much my life would change in the hours that followed. Little did I know it would be the last time we would all be together. It was the last picture of David ever taken. A few hours after this captured moment, his life would be cut short by a stray bullet from the rifle of a drunken hunter.

I recall my hands becoming sticky with blood as I applied pressure to the gaping hole in his chest. There was so much of it, the smell overwhelmed me and to this day, the sight of blood makes me faint. We tried to get help, but help came too late.

My hands begin to tremble and the picture shakes. The image blurs as my tears fall once again for my fallen best friend. I reach for the box but before I return the picture, I think better of it.

I set the newly framed photo on the mantle of my fireplace and trace my finger over my absent friend; gone but never forgotten.

End Transmission.

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The Affliction of Indecision

The following was inspired by today’s writers prompt:

Wednesday Writer’s Prompt
Lake Easton State Park, WA

Two paths stand before me. Both look well-traveled. One is wider, more open but the other, though narrow, looks more interesting. Which way should I choose?

Some pass me by and seem to take one path without any thought for the other. Some chose the other just as easily. Yet here I stand at the fork weighing the decision. I have no idea where either path will take me.

One path could become arduous with steep climbs and dangerous predators while the other could offer relative ease and safety. They both could be safe. They both could be dangerous. I don’t know which way I should go and I’m paralyzed with uncertainty.

More come and go and none seem to suffer my affliction of indecision. Some make suggestions for one path or the other but none have traveled either path so their words mean very little. They shrug and leave me behind.

A stranger approaches yet again only this time he stops and sits with me as I vacillate the fork in the path. He makes no suggestion of one path or another but offers to stay with me until I choose. I’m grateful for the company.

We talk about the possibilities and the need to be properly equipped for whatever either path may hold. My pack is well stocked with everything I should need as I came prepared for this journey. He reminds me this is more than most who’ve traveled either path have brought with them.

I stand and step forward ready to follow this man but he will not move until I do. He says he will walk with me regardless of which path I take but I must make a decision if either of us is to move forward. This helps me make a decision; knowing I don’t have to go it alone. Finally, I choose the more interesting path and he smiles. He picks up his pack and follows me. While neither of us knows what lay ahead, we will walk the path together.

End Transmission.

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Devotions

As part of serving on my church council, I periodically have to give a devotion prior to starting one of our monthly meetings. My turn came up this week and I did what any resourceful Christian would do; I asked my sister, who is a Lutheran Pastor, for some help.

I’m currently in the middle of a bible study on Thessalonians so I had a good place to start. I also follow a remarkable Anglican priest on Twitter who posts little gems and nuggets of awesomeness almost daily. Add some spice from my sister and I came up with the following:

First Thessalonians is believed to be one of the Apostle Paul’s earliest letters. It was co-written by Silas and Timothy while they were in Corinth during his first missionary journey.

1 Thessalonians 2:5-8 As you know and as God is our witness, we never came with words of flattery or with a pretext for greed; nor did we seek praise from mortals, whether from you or from others, though we might have made demands as apostles of Christ. But we were gentle among you, like a nurse tenderly caring for her own children. So deeply do we care for you that we are determined to share with you not only the gospel of God but also our own selves, because you have become very dear to us.

Daniel Brereton is an Anglican priest from Ontario and recently posted this on Twitter: When people say they are too hurt or angry to believe in God or that they simply don’t believe, I just accept that. I don’t try and “slip God in another way” with theological argument or spiritual platitude as if God was some kind of drug I’m determined to slip into their drink. What I DO offer them is the one thing that they are open to at that moment – myself. I try to listen in order to understand, not simply to reply. I apologize where I think it’s needed and wanted. I show concern for their present state, not for their future in church or in heaven. They may no longer believe in a loving God – but I do – so I offer what I believe God has sent to them: me; my time; my empathy; a human presence to say “I see you. I hear you. I care about you. I’m here with you.” I believe it’s what Jesus meant when he said “follow me”.

Jesus was all about relationships. In every encounter he had with people, he offered himself, and in so doing, he gave them God’s love.

A piece of Christ resides in all of us for those times when church may be too big for a fragile moment. We were created in His image so that when those moments arise, we can be examples and imitators of the one who made us. It’s an incredibly vulnerable thing to do, but when people come to us, broken or otherwise, we can show them God’s love simply by being our true self. We don’t need a scripture passage, a committee, or an elegant facility to be what God calls us to be in the moment.

As followers of Christ’s example, sharing ourselves, our stories, our experiences of God at work in our lives is the most important thing we can give to one another. I believe that is how we follow Jesus.

End Transmission.

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Something in the Air

The following short story was inspired by today’s Wednesday Writing Prompt

Lake Easton State Park

The river is the only safe place to travel. The dead couldn’t swim. I long to return to the shore, to feel the warm sun on my skin and to give my weary arms a break, but I can’t. I can see them through the trees; their eyes empty, hollow. They stand unmoving like statues yet I can feel their dead gaze upon me as I maneuver my boat through the water.

I set my paddle down and take a moment to catch my breath. I’m out in the open in the relative calm and safety of the water. Up ahead of me the river narrows and I fear it may become shallow enough for the dead to reach me.

I lean back in my seat and close my eyes as the gentle breeze caresses my face. I am so very tired and I allow my eyes to stay closed.

I feel the hull of my kayak hit something and sit up awake. How had I allowed myself to sleep? I’ve drifted toward the shore and I’m hung up on a tree just below the surface. I sense movement on the shore and the dead statues begin to move sensing I am nearby. I hear the splash as the dead hit the water and make their slow shuffle toward me.

I put my paddle in the water and attempt to push off the submerged debris. It takes me a moment. There is a current driving me closer to the dead who make their way across the shallow water to the edge of my kayak. I feel a thump behind me as the first of them arrive.

I’m free of the tree below the water but the dead have my boat now. I attempt to paddle free but there’s too much dead weight. I turn and use my paddle as a ram but the dead don’t flinch.

Closer and closer, they are nearly upon me. I pull out my pistol, only three bullets remain. I make them count. Two head shots and the dead weight is gone. I drop the pistol into my lap and pick up my paddle only to find another two ahead of me. Another head shot, another one gone but alas, there is little I can do against the fourth and the horde behind him.

I am certain this is the end but then there is a boom in the distance. It’s just loud enough to give the dead pause. The air changes and a green haze consumes the once brilliant blue sky. The dead remain still as they are torn between the new sound and me.

I remain frozen in place, unwilling to remind the dead of my proximity to them. The air changes, it smells funny and tastes almost metallic. The dead one in front of me sinks into the water. He makes a splashing sound as he does and I fear he has drawn the others to me but as I look around, I hear more splashes and see more dead falling.

It takes me a moment to realize what is happening. I have survived and the dead are falling. I’m alive and the dead are truly dead now. I paddle my kayak away from the horde and under the bridge. Through the trees I can see and hear them falling. Something in that green hazy air doesn’t agree with the dead. I only hope it agrees with me.

End Transmission.

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Wednesday Writer’s Prompt

I regularly attend writing workshops and recently I went to one that focused on marketing books using social media. While I haven’t published any books yet (emphasis on the yet), it’s a good idea to have a platform in place when I reach that point. To that end I have created an Instagram and Twitter account. To make these social media accounts effective, I regularly have to engage with them and be engaged by those who follow me. This is a challenge as I don’t often post much because I don’t think of my everyday life as being “post worthy”. I spend most of my mornings at my computer writing or studying and I spend my afternoons taking long walks and reading. It’s great for me as a routine goes but it’s pretty boring to post about day after day.

To help me with my social media engagement, I came up with a concept I can post about regularly. Last week I kicked off a weekly social media campaign called “Wednesday Writer’s Prompt”. The idea is to post a picture or text prompt each Wednesday as a writing exercise. I follow a lot of writers through social media and a few of them follow me so maybe it will catch on and inspire someone to write something. That’s the goal anyway.

Below is today’s writing prompt. It’s a picture I took near sunset at Lake Easton State Park a few weeks ago.                

Lake Easton State Park

Here is what I wrote for this prompt:

We’ve been walking this road for so long; from sunrise now to sunset. My feet hurt. I want to stop. I want to rest. The bugs are out, gnawing at what little remains of us. How have bugs survived when so many of us haven’t? Rest is coming, at least rest from walking. Rest from dying and starvation, rest from choking on the air and baking in the sun will only come if we reach where we’re going. I hope this road gets us there. So few of us left, so many miles to go.

End Transmission.

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Sawubona

Joe Davis and David Scherer at Holden Village 2019

I see you. I hear you. You matter.

My trip to Holden Village had been on the books for nearly a year but I didn’t give much thought as to what I would do when I got there. I brought along my hiking gear knowing that would always be an option. I brought an e-reader loaded with books in case I had down time but I didn’t think I would (and I really didn’t). I knew there would be time for bible study and session work but I wasn’t sure if any of it would interest me when the time came.

Every summer season, Holden Village brings in speakers from around the world to lecture or workshop on a variety of topics. Each season is different giving guests a unique experience every time they sojourn to the village. I didn’t look at who would be presenting while I was there and figured I’d go wherever the spirit called me.

Joe Davis and David Scherer led a series of workshops exploring race and faith in our church and in our world. Most of their workshops conflicted with the village choir practice so I didn’t get to attend all of their presentations. It was Wednesday before I had a break from choir and could sit in on what they came to talk about.

They started with Sawubona, a Zulu greeting which translates to “I see you”, a far more meaningful greeting than a simple “hello”. Sawubona says “I see who you are personally, your humanity, dignity, and respect”. I’d never heard of it before but I quickly recognized the power of understanding behind it.

Whenever anyone finished speaking at one of their workshops, those in attendance would collectively respond, “We see you. We hear you. You matter.” It was a way of acknowledging the individual’s contribution to the discussion even if what they said was uncomfortable or caused dissention.

It’s easy to do something like this in a faith setting in a remote village in the mountains. Places like Holden draw a certain type of person; one generally open to new ideas and ways of connecting to “other” people.

I began to wonder what it would be like if Sawubona was used in government. What if after every member in the house or senate spoke, the group collectively responded with “we see you, we hear, you, you matter”? What if when every candidate finished speaking at a debate, the other candidates responded with “We see you, we hear you, you matter”? Think of what kind of example that would set to those watching. Would they stop and listen? Would they consider the words of their advisories? Or would Sawubona morph into a platitude spoken with no intention of understanding?

While I don’t serve in government (nor do I have any desire to do so), I can apply Sawubona in my own life. There are times when I make remarks on social media that others don’t agree with. I have often been attacked personally for my views and opinions and yes even facts I’ve presented. Since my trek to Holden Village, I have been trying even harder to temper my responses and consider Sawubona. This person attacking me matters, the sum of their life experiences has led them to a place of disagreement with me but that doesn’t negate either one of us. I matter, they matter, we all matter.

But what happens when Sawubona isn’t reciprocated? I’m not gonna lie, that’s the part I struggle with. It’s frustrating to no end when I extend understanding but don’t receive it in return. I can’t control what someone else says, does, or even believes. Yet if I want something better, something more, I have to be the example. I have to model the change I want to see in others.

I encourage all of you reading this to consider Sawubona as you go about your daily lives. Perhaps finding common ground in these adversarial times starts with a simple acknowledgement of the other: I see you. I hear you. You matter!

End Transmission.