The Eye of the Needle

Tags

Around the Year, Bible lesson, Camel, Emmet Fox, God, Jesus, Needle's Eye, Old San Juan, possessions, Sewing needle, Sunday School

Imagine a camel trying to fit through the eye of a sewing needle!  It is impossible. Or, so I always thought as a kid in Sunday School whenever this lesson rolled around.  Jesus said, “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God,” (Mark 10:25).  I usually told my parents on the drive home from church, “We need to give up all our possessions.”

A Needle’s Eye, Old San Juan, 2010, (KT’s sis-n-law and I)

One day,my mom shared Emmet Fox’s little sermon on the subject.  It’s not impossible, she explained.  It’s just a lot of work.  “…Every important city was surrounded by a wall for defense.  When a laden camel arrived after sunset,” after the large gate had closed, “…the only way it could get in was to be unloaded of all merchandise, whereupon it would squirm on its knees through…” a low wicket gate known as the needle’s eye.  (Around the Year with Emmet Fox, p.133)

As a newlywed in the 1980s, I was very interested in gaining possessions to furnish our new home and to keep up with our peers.  I devoted a lot of time, energy, and thought toward this.  I began having a reoccurring dream.  I was always waiting in line to board a lovely aircraft for an exciting journey to a new destination, where I really wanted to go, from which I would never return.  As my turn approached, I worried about where I’d left my purse, my keys, my suitcase, that new vase, the little oriental rug I loved.  An overwhelming need to bring these items along always sent me running from the line, hollering, “Please wait! I’ll be right back!”  I always missed the plane.  I always woke up very perplexed.

I mentally practiced walking away from these things.  I got the house where I wanted it, then moved on.  I went back to school.  I stopped comparing our home to others.  I started caring more for friends and family.  The reoccurring dream remained a constant warning.  Then, one night I boarded the plane.  I have no memory of what happened after that, except I awoke with the most peaceful feeling.  I never had the dream again. I’d like to think I’ve found the way through that needle, by devoting more thought and energy to friends and family, than possessions.  Thank goodness I have not yet reached the other side!

A special thanks to one of my favorite blogs for reminding me of this lesson.  Yes, life is simpler in the wilderness, (another lesson from Memory Lake).  http://malcolmscorner.wordpress.com/2013/01/20/how-many-things-dont-you-want/

Yes, it is all true.

Tags

authentic, Great Lakes, Lake Michigan, memoir, Michigan, petoskeys, Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore

Tori, Lori, Nancy, Susie, Cindy, Christie, Sarah, Me, and Mary (1976)

When I have the privilege of meeting readers of Memory Lake, they are surprised to learn how much of the novel is true.  “In real life there is another Nancy, a Christie, Lori, Tori, Susie, Cindy, Sarah, and Mary?”, they ask.  Yes, I reply, supposing they are an e-reader, because it is easy to miss the picture on page 3.

“My daughter’s name is KT, her best friends are Angela and Katie, my sister’s name is Susan, and the camp really exists though I changed its name,” I say with a genuine smile, because the honor of writing about them still lingers.  “Water spouts often form over Lake Michigan and the Sleeping Bear Dunes are huge.”  Few readers question the validity of the rest of the novel because its coming-of-age conflict and character interactions speak to the human experience.  We all need to overcome fear.  We all need to learn that putting on a smile, especially when we least feel like it, leads to real joy.

KT, Katie, Angela, and Lake Michigan (2004)

Whether you devour Memory Lake over a week-end, *”like an irresistible box of candy”, or deliberately spread it out, because like camp, *”you don’t want it to end”, please know it is 99% true.  The 1% is to keep the story flowing and to protect the sanctity of locations.

Petoskeys; Michigan’s state rock (fossils of prehistoric coral) also mentioned in “Memory Lake”.

* Quotes from reviews.

The Sound of Waterfalls

Tags

brain tumor, Columbia River Gorge, Eagle Creek Wilderness Area, Hearing loss, Magnetic resonance imaging, Michigan in Pictures, Michigan waterfalls, MRI, Porcupine Mountains, waterfalls, wind chime

Eagle Creek Wilderness Area, Columbia River Gorge, Oregon…

“Who spends Friday night having an MRI of their brain?” I wondered while sitting in the waiting room at 10pm this past Friday.  Turns out, I’m not the only one having magnetic resonance imaging in lieu of celebrating the end of another work week.  Mine, however, requires the staff to change the machine’s magnet, since those fine little passages of the ear are tough to capture, so I am the last customer of the day.  My husband is so sweet to spend this time with me.  He even delivered to the technician my old MRI from 1994.  Large as a cook top, and weighing nearly as much, these antiquated images wrapped in brown paper caused the staff to wax nostalgic.  Nowadays, results are delivered on a sleek disk.

Hiding behind a waterfall is quite exciting…

I am confident the new images will not reveal a brain tumor any more than the old ones did.  However, because sudden hearing loss at my age is rare, even though it has happened before, tumors must be ruled out.  I am sad for all the tones I’ve lost, especially since my mind remembers the way ELO and Super Tramp are supposed to sound.  On the flip side, I am delighted by the new sounds I hear.  Tinkling wind chimes and rushing waterfalls have filled the void and keep me company when people are talking about things I cannot hear.  The wind chimes are occasional phenomenon, same as the real thing.  However, I hear a waterfall in my right ear all the time.  It is soothing and comforting, and allows me to picture the most beautiful ones I’ve ever seen. My favorite will always be the one in “Memory Lake”.  “The waterfall reflected a silvery sheen from the sun except mid-center where a faint, dark shape loomed behind the torrential curtain.”  We dared to cross a cliff and “…catapulted sideways. The water bent into a million fragmented rainbows,” as we disappeared into the falls.  “The walls shimmered in a coppery glow. We howled and shouted, but the thundering fall would not allow our voices to be heard.  Its jealous volume dominated.”

I do not have a photo of that prophetic natural wonder of my youth from the Porcupine Mountains, though I suspect it might be among those captured in Michigan in Pictures.  I plan to study them thoroughly, searching for the spark of a memory, while hearing my own special sound effects.

“The Captain is on the Bridge.” Emmet Fox.

Tags

believe, Captain, civilization, Emmet Fox, God, prayer, President, sunrise

Regardless of news reports, “The world is not going to the dogs.  The human race is not doomed.  Civilization is not going to crash.  The Captain is on the bridge.”

Sunrise or sunset?

The Captain is not President, Congress, Prime Minister, Parliament, or Pope. Emmet Fox reminds us, “God is still in business.”  It may seem incompetent buffoons are in charge, and we have little say in how they govern us; except to vote every so often and write a letter or two.  In truth, when all of us band together and “…realize the Presence of God where trouble seems to be,” we can affect change.  Close your eyes, breath deeply, smile because all is well, and mentally put God in charge.  That’s it.  You have just prayed for your country. Believe it. God is on the Bridge.

Snow Falling on Notre Dame and Ironwood

Tags

Ara Parseghian, campus, college football, Edison Elementary, Football, Good Year, Ironwood Road, Michigan State, New Years Eve, Notre Dame, Snow, South Bend, Sugar Bowl

John Adams 1974 yearbook…

Independence and autonomy sent my parents to South Bend, Indiana from Michigan when I was two years old.  They needed to regain the freedom they’d enjoyed as students at Michigan State.  Inexplicably, both sets of parents were criticizing their parenting choices, dropping in at all hours, and calling the police if more than a day passed without a phone call.  I remember an exciting move to a newly constructed house, on a street full of kids, on the eastern edge of Notre Dame’s campus.

Peachtree Lane pooled in a cul-de-sac toward the wooded campus, but it began on Ironwood Road.  This forbidden boundary, a two-lane artery, shrouded in lead exhaust, hosted traffic as steady as a pop-over jump rope.  To reach Edison Elementary, we needed to cross it.  Taking a detour to the crossing guard crimped our style.  With the good toe planted on the edge of the curb, arms raised, eyes scanning right, left, right, left, we’d hear heavy metal bearing down on thick tires.  Like the whirling jump rope, we’d wait for our chance.  “Go!”  We’d span the asphalt, spurred by fear.  Every crossing raced my pulse and stabbed my heart.  I always breathed a sigh of relief to gain the opposite sidewalk.

Ironwood hugged us to the University.  Like a strong-arm, it gathered our senses toward marching bands, referee whistles, crowds roaring, and Good Year blimps hovering.  On game days, we lined Ironwood’s sidewalk and rattled newspaper pom-poms, stained in thick blue and gold paint.  We sang the Fight Song for laughing, drinking adults hanging out car windows.  Frequently, they tossed us extra tickets.  We’d hop on our bikes and head for the stadium, not needing to cross.

For ten years, my confidence grew with every crossing while Ara Parseghian led Notre Dame to consecutive wins.  On New Year’s Eve, 1973, TVs tuned to the Sugar Bowl in New Orleans.  Our team faced Alabama as a football independent.  It was a nail-biter.  When the victory occurred we headed outside to hear the campus roaring.  We met silence instead.  Huge fluffy flakes, fresh from Lake Michigan, muffled the winter night.  They floated gently as white kaleidoscopes on wool coats, doily patterns on black asphalt, and knitted white rows upon bare branches.  We knew our boundary would soon span across town to John Adams High School.  We sensed the end of Ara and the beginning of Devine.  But, as snowflakes collided in the night and stacked into airy piles around us, we reveled in our own quiet victory of independence and autonomy.  We slowly walked the center line of Ironwood Road.

Camp NaNoWriMo and Christian Camp & Conference Association

Tags

Arts, book writing, Camp Conference, creative writing, memoirs, NaNoWriMo, National Novel Writing Month, North American Christian & Camp Conference, November, San Diego, Writers Resources

Don’t fret if you did not finish the 50,000 word challenge in November.  You can join the camp and do it anytime!  “An Idyllic Writers’ Retreat Smack-Dab in the Middle of your Hectic Life,” is waiting for you at: http://www.nanowrimo.org/en/campnano

Pencils made from pine trees…

I did not rise to the “National Novel Writing Month” challenge because I already have too many words.   Devotion of thought is what I need for adjustments, alignments, and augmentations: “Thought + Time = AAA.”  Congratulations to my real life and cyber friends for heading in the write direction. Today begins 3 days of the North American Christian Camp Conference in San Diego where SIX autographed copies of Memory Lake will be given away, and promoted, hopefully for a bump in sales, so my publisher will be willing to give one copy to EVERY attendee next year for their 75th anniversary Conference!     This year’s theme is, “Only be strong and courageous.” Joshua 1:18   Which is a great mantra for my NaNoWriMo friends in the next phase of their amazing accomplishment; EDITING.

Nanny, 1913 – 2012

Tags

Babies, Circle of Life, Family, grandmothers, Home, Lake Michigan, mothers, Thanksgiving

Losing a grandmother is a slow burning grief, unlike the fiery intensity of losing a mother.   Having lost my mother first, I can attest to this difference.   Of the latter, I recall a frenzied panic and quiet horror.  Months needed to pass before the gaping wound had healed enough for me to reflect upon my mom’s life.   Almost immediately I was able to reflect upon my grandmother’s.  She helped this process considerably by reaching 99 and a half.  News of Nanny’s critical fall came mere moments before news of my daughter’s pregnancy.  In August, I stood on a sand dune Up North, within a mile of Lake Michigan, as my cell phone delivered one call after the other.  I did not yet know Nanny would leave us within the week, but I sensed her passing.  I did not yet know KT’s baby was a little girl, but I sensed the possibility when she cited an April due date within days of Nanny’s 100th birthday.  

A baby is coming…

Aspects of Nanny’s personality will live forever in Memory Lake, which brings a strange sort of comfort.  She was a villain to my mom, a Nanny to me, and a hero to my daughter.  Her villainy passed away with her and my mom, leaving the best of the rest to ‘live on’ in my daughter and me.   Over Thanksgiving, KT said, “I want you to live a very long time, so you can be Nanny, I can be Gramsy, and we can see my daughter’s baby.”   I accepted the challenge.  Then I announced, “But, my name is going to be Mamie.”

National Novel Writing Month; “NaNoWriMo”

Tags

Arts, NaNoWriMo, National Novel Writing Month, Novel, November, Word count, WordPress, Writer Resources

This month is National Novel Writing Month, or “NaNoWriMo,” in which aspiring writers support one another through forums to write a 50,000 word novel in the month of November.  Many folks I know are rising to this challenge, seeking to jumpstart that novel, to coax it into the light of day.  I wish them infinite creativity and inspiration.

600,000 words and counting….

It’s tough being creative on demand and I greatly admire all who are taking this challenge, as well as my journalist friends who produce quality works consistently while meeting deadlines.  About twenty years ago I wrote a 10,000 word paper on pressure washing and pig farming to complete my MBA.  After that stretch of the imagination, my creative writing and professional life parted ways.  Writing became an escape from juggling work and raising kids.  If blogging had existed back then, I would have embraced it.  Instead, I wrote a sci-fi fantasy novel.  After ten years, I had over 600,000 words, a detailed outline, and no clear path to wrapping it up.  I set it aside after attending a camp reunion, which eventually became a multifaceted tale of true events; Memory Lake.  (Please note, early versions had over 180,00 words.  The end product has about 136,000 and 436 pages.) I have now gone back to these 600,000 words to try to make them work.  They stretch before me like a very long wall covered in sloppy plaster.  Inch by inch, I am smoothing the plaster, picking away unwanted clumps, adding new, sanding the seams, and blending a seamless surface.  This will take longer than a month.  But, that’s okay, because the satisfaction from one inch of smooth quality is worth it.

While smoothing, I’m thinking of my NaNoWriMo friends.  They too will face a pile of rough words.  I want to say, don’t lose heart, hang in there, because this is when the real fun begins.  It’s when your characters turn around and start talking to you.  It’s when the real writing begins.

To the Veterans. To SAC. To B52s.

Tags

B52, Censorship, Military Service, Minot AFB, North Dakota, Peace, Strategic Air Command, Veterans Day

“Peace is our Profession”; Strategic Air Command motto*

“Not many people understood why we turned introspective and blissful at the mere mention of camp. Either they believed the lampooned versions in movies or thought of it as a one-week excursion into cheerleading, band, scouting, or sports. Perhaps those bands of brothers who had experienced combat together could understand it best, though the military men in my life resented the comparison. I had suggested it once at an Officer’s Club in Minot, North Dakota, being a newly married transplant aching for my summer friends. I had been informed ours was a country club existence made possible by the service of those brave soldiers. How could I argue this? Ever since, I had taken my memories underground.” Memory Lake, p.356

Yes, camp is not the same as military service.  I wholeheartedly admit this.  I am overflowing with gratitude to be living at this time in history, in this country, where I have become all my heart desires.  I thank the soldiers who have devoted their lives to protecting my freedom, so I can have these wondeful memories.

Thank you to my husband, John, now retired, for his 22 years of service to the taxpayers. He always tried to put them first.

He thinks it’s no big deal, and will probably never see this blog post.  But, he was a Cold War Warrior, featured in this TIME magazine article.  I’m proud of him, though he says he was, “Just doing his job.”   http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,922438,00.html

*(Google censored this photo of the SAC emblem, a B52 model, and military medals, taken from my phone. Gmail would not allow me to download, or copy it, because of its ‘sensitive’ content.  I had to use a different email account.  This is not freedom.)

Camp Sandy Rockaway

Tags

Belle Harbor, destruction, flood, hurricane, New York, Queens, rockaway, rockaways, Sandy, storm surge, Superstorm, superstorm sandy

Sandy’s after effects

“…Old farmhouses entombed in the deep like ghostly sunken ships, their treasured memories lost forever, fish swimming through dilapidated doors and windows as layers of silt gather on a kitchen counter, once tenderly cared for, where a family used to gather.”  Memory Lake, p. 5

I’m five foot five, so I figure the sea in my stepsister’s Rockaway town home had reached my collar-bone before it slipped back into the ocean.  When she, her husband, and 2-year-old evacuated they had not conceived such damage.  Yesterday, despite the aftermath of chaos, flaring tempers, and destruction they rented a truck, found a storage unit, and emptied their rental home.  Damaged furniture from the kitchen and living room now sit on the curb.  They are camping for the next ten days in a hotel.  Then what?  They don’t know.

I’m certain, their faith will pull them through, and their joy, for as my step-sis says, “It’s just stuff.”

Photo provided by Tom Weis:  http://tomweisphoto.com/gallery.html