Personal blog of christian
writer & fallible mom
Katy McKenna Raymond
in Kansas City, Missouri
Katy is represented by
Rachelle Gardner at
WordServe Literary
Read more Katy at
LateBoomer.net
Recent Posts
- Soul Train
- Live Out Your Dream And Discard The Box
- Tears In A Bottle
- From The Young Mom I Once Was, To You
- I Can’t Help Falling
- What A Difference Ten Years Makes
- The Next Best Thing To Robert Redford
- The Memory Keeper’s Daughter
- Where Have All The Years Gone
- Fun With Kiki Cullen
- Stuck On Mom
- Ten Years Later, Our Girls From Northern Ireland Remembered
- The Thrift of Grief
- Job Security
- The Party’s Over
Syndicate
E me at katy @ ngenius.com
Predictability? Don’t Count On It
I’ve never placed a high value on predictability, and it’s a good thing, too.
Sure, I like my husband to be the dependable type who shows up when he says he’s going to or calls to let me know he’s okay. I love it that, as a self-employed creative guy, he doesn’t decide to blow off work because he can or shirk his responsibilities to his clients or forget to bill them, hahaha.
He knows he can count on me to handle the bookkeeping for our business, to arrange get-togethers with our kids and our friends, to make sure our house, cars, and bodies are maintained on a regular basis, and to watch out for The Moms.
In those ways, our lives are predictable. But in so many hundreds of other ways, um, not so much.
I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that I had no idea when Doug and I got married that our lives would take the path they have. When we got engaged, Doug was mowing lawns for another man’s company, destined to break many otherwise serviceable lawn mowers because, well, he wasn’t cut out to be a lawn guy. He was a brilliant guitarist and songwriter, and soon to be an up-and-coming graphic designer. He just didn’t know it yet.
At the same time, I was a highly-compensated data recorder at a major pharmaceutical company, scribbling poetry on the side and getting in trouble for my distractibility. What “word” chick WOULDN’T be distracted by nothing but numbers, numbers, and more numbers all day long for five grueling years? Still, it never crossed my mind that someday I’d write even one novel, much less attract an agent and have the opportunity to pursue publication professionally.
I’ve grown to believe we do our children a great disservice when we urge them to structure their lives around the probability that events will occur precisely as they plan. We lead them to believe that if they go to college, get good grades, graduate with a degree in a high-paying field, and find a compatible mate, everything else in life will play out accordingly.
That’s just not always the case, though. Often, in spite of a young person’s ducks being in a neat and tidy row that’s supposed to be pointed toward a McMansion and a nanny for the kids, real life comes calling.
Real life is anything but predictable.
I’m glad Doug and I didn’t compose five, ten, fifteen, and twenty year plans, even though I guess by most people’s standards we’d be considered slackers. Honestly, sometimes next week is farther ahead than I want to look. Besides, I’ve always liked surprises, and life has turned out to have plenty of them.
I saw this in an essay by David Calderwood and thought it brilliant: “This lifelong illusion of predictability leaves us woefully unprepared for the abyss of reality.”
Is your life turning out as you thought it would, as you planned (if you planned)? Or has it taken directions you couldn’t anticipate in your younger years?
Would you rather lead a predictable life than not? If so, have you succeeded in making that happen? I’d love to know!
It’s That Time Again!
In November of 2001, I did NaNoWriMo for the first time.
For any of you who don’t know about National Novel Writing Month, it’s a recurring adventure in which participants attempt to write a 50,000 word novel in a one-month period.
I’ll tell you what: I wrote the World’s Crummiest Novel that month, but I kept my BIC (Butt In Chair) and got the words down, even managing to come up for air long enough to do a turkey and all the trimmings for the fam. Plus I was going to school full time. And my mother’s health was beginning its precipitous decline, demanding a ton of my attention.
But I did it. The next year, I did it again. And then I began to write a “real” novel, and at some point along the way, abandoned it. THEN I wrote the first full-length novel that I actually finished, the one that landed me a great agent, Rachelle Gardner of WordServe Literary.
But still no publishing deal, boo-hoo. Oh, wait. That itsy-bitsy crying jag was not nearly demonstrative enough to show my true feelings. BOO-HOOOOOO and WAAAAAA! That’s more like it. You might as well know how I really feel, right?
Now, with this new book, I’m doing something that never crossed my mind with My Lawful Wedded Life. I’m plotting. And getting to know my characters rather well before much of the actual story is written. And constructing a timeline for the novel, not to mention a timeline of how many words per day I need to write if I’m going to complete it in my natural lifetime.
But those things are largely done now. And here it is, coming up on November 1. I’m afraid I may have prepped myself into a corner and it’s possible I’m losing my nerve about writing the story. So I think I’m gonna go down the NaNoWriMo road once again. What have I got to lose?
Fifty thousand words from now, I’ll most likely have some stuff I can really use and then I can build upon those elements and get this story written. I’m absolutely in love with the tale, and hoping I can execute it in a way that even approaches what I imagine the novel can be.
Anybody else gonna give NaNo a run this year? If so, let me know in the comments section. Maybe we can say a prayer for each other. Lord knows, we’ll need all the help we can get.
Losing It
Far be it from me to brag, but boasting’s okay, right?
I’m here to tell you that I am the proud loser of 8.5 pounds, in about as many weeks. Now, that may not sound like much to you, especially if you watch The Biggest Loser and see people routinely drop 10 pounds PER WEEK, and in the case of that one guy this week, 15 pounds!
I’m not the biggest loser, and I’m certainly not the fastest. But I may one day win a prize for being the one who most often gains and then loses the very same pounds. It’s like when a certain bulge starts to lessen and then disappear, I remember the last time (and the time before that…) when I felt this exact sensation of it meeting its demise.
That’s the thing, though. Fat cells never die. They fill, they empty, but they stay right where they’ve always been, waiting for the next go ‘round.
Right now, I weigh 44 pounds less than I did 10 years ago, so that’s in my favor. I’ve kept off a lot of weight, permanently, since I began losing in February of 2000. But I do have periods when the pounds creep back on, and then I have to get a grip and dedicate myself to the process all over again.
The most successful thing I’ve EVER done in this lifelong battle is to completely eliminate sugar from my diet once and for all. It’s been nearly 10 years, and I can’t go back for the rest of my life. My family is replete with diabetics and the health risks are too high for my blood, even though the gambling gene is clearly in my DNA.
So I soldier on, fighting the Battle of the Bulge with all the fortitude I can muster. It’s not about vanity for me. It’s about making this body last for as long as God intends and not inflicting unnecessary disability and illness on myself, my husband, and my loved ones.
Any personal battles you’re winning these days? Feel free (and proud!) to boast about them here!
Acutely Not That Funny
I used to write funny stories about my mother in this space. Even though she’s had—-steadily these past eight years—-more health problems than fifty mamas put together, I was somehow always able to pull out the goofy stuff and make it fallible fodder. I haven’t been so good at the pulling-out part recently. Maybe I’m just pooped. I hope to recover my sense of humor soon!
Mom’s been through a phase of breaking lots of bones these past few months. She’ll be walking just the few steps from her bathroom back to bed and two bones in her foot will snap. She doesn’t have to fall or crash into anything for this to happen—-it’s spontaneous, and not in a good way.
No sooner did her foot feel better (I say feel better rather than “heal,” because her bones don’t typically heal), than she fell and tore the meniscus in her right knee. At first, I typed “left” because five years ago she did tear her left knee and had surgery to repair it. But that was then.
We waited a while to have it MRId, because hope springs eternal and maybe the pain would stop. But after hobbling on it for a month (hobbling being its own fall risk), she found out it was indeed torn. Her wonderful orthopedic doc put a shot of cortisone in it, but Mom didn’t think it helped at all.
So surgery was scheduled, for next Monday. Scheduling surgery for Mom is not like signing a consent form. It took me LITERALLY 1.5 hours on the phone to answer the hospital’s questions about her health history, previous surgeries, and medications. She has a LONG history, O fallible ones. Then the lady who took the information said she would be shocked if, during the pre-op visit to the hospital, they did not require Mom to have extensive heart and lung tests before operating.
Mom has congestive heart failure and COPD, but even a relatively simple procedure like a meniscus repair is risky for her. My oh-oh feelings about the hospital’s obvious worries about liability kicked in and a family meeting was called. We all needed to make sure Mom knew the risk/reward ratio for going forward with surgery versus abandoning the idea and praying the cortisone works.
At the end of an hour’s discussion, we’d all decided that surgery was not a good idea for her. I would call the surgeon and the hospital first thing this past Monday and cancel the whole thing, at least for the time being.
So Monday morning, I placed the call to the doctor’s office and left a voice mail for his nurse to call me back. The second I finished leaving the message, our phone rang and I said to Doug, “Wow. That was fast.”
Well, it WAS fast, but it wasn’t the doctor’s office calling back. It was the facility where Mom lives.
“Your mom fell a few minutes ago. She says she broke her arm.”
A bit of fear shot through me, as Mom has a permanently broken left humerus. She only had one available arm to break, from where I sat.
“Which arm?” I asked.
“The broken one.”
“Do you mean her wrist, or what?”
“No. The same spot it’s already broken.”
My sister and I got down there right away and took Mom to the ER for xrays. Because she’s got this large bone with the clean break, it’s possible that those broken pieces could get badly rearranged in a fall and try to poke themselves through her skin or something. A lovely thought, eh? Oh, the pictures in my mind!
Instead, Mom took a chip out of the top of her shoulder, plus fractured it from that point down. So, technically, the very top of her humerus is broken—-the same bone on the same arm. She diagnosed herself correctly. What a gal!
The surgery, needless to say, is off. Mom’s in a sling, and therefore in a wheelchair. It’s too hard to use a walker with a sling, and she must use a walker because of her multiple issues.
The most fascinating—-but still not funny—-thing is the amazement the ER doc expressed over Mom’s xray. She called my sister and me in to look at it and pointed to the broken humerus, a five-year-old injury.
“The bone is…disappearing.”
Sure enough, there was a four-inch gap where the pieces of bone used to meet, back in the old days, when Mom was one together chick.
I googled “disappearing bone” later and there is actually an extremely rare disorder called “Vanishing Bone Disease.” Maybe 200 cases have been reported EVER.
Yesterday, we took Mom to her ortho doc, who was as shocked as the ER doc by Mom’s xray.
“Do you think she has Vanishing Bone Disease?” I asked.
“I’ve never even heard of it,” he said. “But yes, I’d say she has it.”
The funniest thing Mom’s said recently happened Monday, after hours in the ER. We were getting ready to roll out of there and the morphine had kicked in. She matter-of-factly said, “Well, I hope the rest of the day goes better than this morning.”
OK, maybe it’s not ha-ha funny, but sometimes a girl has to go with what she’s got.
Coming To Terms With Writing Terms
Today, my husband Doug and I are both writing our takes on some novel-writing terms we learned a lot about at the American Christian Fiction Writers conference last week. For the most part, we took the same workshops. But we aren’t reading each other’s blog posts until after we hit “submit.” Any guesses about whether or not we came away from the classes with similar understanding about the essential elements of a novel? Leave your comments here, or over at Marginal, or both.
Noble Goal: As a writer, I have one main noble goal with each manuscript I write: To Get The Book Published. You may be wondering what makes me so certain my goal of being published and making a ton of money selling a gazillion books is noble. That’s easy. I am a good person, a noble person, if you will. It should go without saying that Noble People Have Noble Goals. It is possible that some of the characters I create in my novels also have a Noble Goal, but I wouldn’t count on it if I were you.
Conflict: Conflict in a novel cannot and should not be confused with tension. Of course, confusion itself—especially when it’s between the two main characters—can cause conflict, thereby raising the level of tension, which is not the same thing as conflict, as I’m sure you remember. One does lead to another, though. There’s no denying that. Sometimes conflict leads to tension, but I believe it’s more often true that tension leads to conflict. As long as the writer does her job in keeping the two concepts (and executions of the concepts) distinct, the reader will have a good experience with the story. Especially if it includes an actual execution. When heads roll, tension and conflict both increase exponentially.
Tension: Tension occurs often and early. In the very first sentence of the novel, really. Even before that, preferably. The title itself should make the reader go, “Yes! There’s a question in that title—-it makes me want to keep reading to find out what happens next!” Your goal as an author is to create a new generation of insomniacs who must turn to sleep aids after the page-turning experience your Tense Titles lead them into. Remember, tension and conflict are two very different things. VERY different.
Micro-tension: This is what the main characters in a novel experience in a pub. Of course, there must be tension on every page, but when your protagonist and antagonist order micro-brews on tap, the tension subsides a tad. This allows the reader a little breather between the more intensely tense scenes that occur, presumably, sans beer.
Dark moment: Dark moments routinely occurred in all “commercial” or “popular” fiction until recently. (Literary fiction is a different bird altogether. Every moment in a literary novel is a dark moment.) Now, sadly, our good friends the Brits have dictated that in order to avoid offending people, even people who weren’t offended at all until these new rules came out, all of us including authors must avoid words like “dark,” “darker,” “darkest,” “black,” “grey” (wouldn’t want to annoy those in the midst of a heart attack, now would we?) and etc. Since it would be very hard to write a novel scene which illustrated bleakness by referring to it as the “utter-absence-of-light moment,” we authors have now banded together and decided to forget dark moments completely. We hope we haven’t stepped on any readers toes, but that’s the way the PC cookie crumbles.
Denouement: From the French, obviously. This is the part of the novel that happens after all the good parts have been read. As a reader, you could skip it, actually, and you’d have the gist of the story, but since you’ll probably want to stick around for the Epilogue (which happens after the boring stuff that happens after the good stuff…), why not tough it out? Especially since the author goes to so much trouble to get the French translation of the word down-pat and make sure your experience of the Denouement is top-drawer. First, you’ll recall that when you find “ment” at the end of a French word, it’s the equivalent of us using the “ly” construction to form an adverb. For example, we write “absolutely.” The French, in an effort to approximate English as closely as possible without copying us verbatim, write “absolutement.” So, right off the bat a writer knows that the word Denouement is an adverb. It’s plain to any armchair linguist that the remaining two syllables can be translated as they are spoken, especially since the French are known for dumbing down their language for the sake of Americans. Therefore, we have “duh” + “new” + “ly.” A denouement is successfully written when an author writes an apres-climax winding-down section that is new (duh!) and contains more adverbs than allowed in the rest of the novel.
Epilogue: Back in the day, I owned an “Epilady” depilatory system. You know what I’m talking about, right? It’s not just an electric shaver for women, it’s one of those torture gadgets that yanks (or burns, not sure which) the hairs out at the root level, so that you don’t have to shave again for a few weeks or longer. In many ways, an Epilogue is just like an Epilady. Once you read it, at the very end of the novel, you feel like the story is finally blessedly over and you won’t have to think about it again for a long time, if ever. The Epilogue nicely ties up any loose threads (hairs…), and may even cause you to look forward to the Prologue in the series’ next title. But for the time being, you’re just happy it’s finished. You can unplug the darned thing and shove it in the closet, or add it to the pile being donated to the library. Whatever.
So, dear fallible ones, tell me: Which one of us, Doug or me, got the most out of the writing conference? Think we got our money’s worth?
Another Great Conference!
I’ve attended five national writing conferences now, and in many ways each one is better than the last.
Maybe you’re a fledgling author who’s wondering how to go about making connections in the publishing industry. Maybe you’ve written some articles you’d like to get in front of an editor, but you don’t know where to start. Or maybe you’ve even got a complete book manuscript and can’t figure out the best next step.
First of all, local conferences in your own town or region can be fantastic sources for training and opportunities to meet other writers going through the same stages you are. Often local groups are able to bring in editors from magazines and book publishing companies, and you will get a chance to meet them and perhaps even talk about what you’re working on.
My very first sale ever was to the founder of our local group, who happened at that time to be an editor at the Nazarene Publishing House, which is headquartered here in Kansas City. I wrote an article about how to facilitate a successful home Bible discussion group, which basically ended up being a humorous piece about how some participants in such a group try to take discussions hostage and what to do about it.
It took Jeanette more than a month to respond to my submission, and honestly, I thought she would be bowled over by my amazing wit (and charm!) and purchase the article within 30 seconds of it crossing her desk. I mean, really, people! When would she EVER have another opportunity like the one I was so graciously offering her? She did eventually buy the article, and while I felt a tad sorry for her since she seemed to hesitate slightly over the purchase, I began to realize she had, um, several other pieces to consider simultaneously.
Oh, and maybe my writing wasn’t all that? Nah, that couldn’t be it. Forget I mentioned it.
The truth is, though, that I sold the first article I submitted, and basically all the articles I wrote subsequently. Sometimes, I did have to send them to more than one magazine or newspaper to find the right fit, but they did sell. There’s a possibility, looking back, that I didn’t fully appreciate how easily I managed to get in print. Yes, there is that distinct possibility.
Then one day, I decided to take a fiction writing class at college, taught my a well-published friend of mine, Nancy Moser. She invited each student to submit a scene from a work-in-progress, so that she could critique it. Well, I just knew Nancy would think I was brilliant. Ha! Nancy red-inked me into the next county. Basically, she said that I had not written a “scene” at all, but rather an essay. Yes, I had “told” instead of “shown”—-the kiss of death in novel writing.
I did my best to write what she asked for, and resubmitted. This time, she wrote, “YES. This is a SCENE.” Finally! I almost understood a concept!
It wasn’t long before I really wanted to find a national conference where I could meet published fiction authors, wannabe authors, editors, and agents. And so my annual trek to the American Christian Fiction Writers conference began. What a great association of wonderful, talented folks!
Through a friendship I developed there, I was referred to my terrific agent, Rachelle Gardner of WordServe Literary. If you are at the point in your own writing where you’re seeking an agent, let me just say that it doesn’t hurt one little bit to have made wonderful friends first. I did send my work to several agents without a referral from a published writer, and the rejections came rather quickly. And let me say that I never ASKED a published friend to refer me to an agent. Or to introduce me to one in person. But several friends offered to refer me, and I did NOT turn down the gift of this offer!
The relationships made and fostered through attending a good conference may be the best gift you can give yourself as a writer—-whether you’re struggling to get started or multi-published. I now count writers, editors, and agents among my closest and dearest friends.
This year, I concentrated both on renewing friendships with those I’ve met before and on making appointments with editors I’d never met, pitching my next novel. All the editors at the conference know and are in solid communication with my agent, and so I was encouraged to make sure she sends my book on to them when it’s finished. A couple of them had seen my first novel and turned it down for whatever reason, but they continue to be open to seeing my next book, so I feel good about that.
The publishing industry is not an easy one to break into, especially at the book level. We ate lunch with one editor who actually expressed her opinion that there are far too many books being pubbed, and that her company is acquiring too many titles and not doing them all justice. I have to say I do agree with her.
But that doesn’t keep me from hoping that one day one of my books will rise to the top and make it onto the bookstore shelf (or Kindle or whatever…). I truly hope I can continue to become a more solid writer, that more and more I can put into practice all I’ve learned from the tremendous conferences I’ve been privileged to attend.
In the meantime, I’m grateful for my generous friends in the world of books. Without them, we Wannabe Published Authors wouldn’t have nearly so much fun.
Catching Up Again, Or Still?
I’ll tell you what: If things could be any nuttier over here, I don’t know how.
Since May, when the hail storm from hades wrecked the outside of our house, Doug and I have practically hosted Construction Guys around the clock. I am happy to report that the repairs are almost done—-only tiny details remain. But MAN did this remind me of how I did not love the process of building our home, which we moved into fifteen years ago. I actually don’t mind the myriad of minuscule decisions (or the big ones, either). I think what gets to me is the noise level and the mistakes.
If a company tries to tell you that they’ll act as the general contractor for the job so that you can go about the business of your regular daily lives, DON’T believe them. I can’t tell you how many days the supervisor showed up for his minutes-long visit only to have to inform the crew that they’d need to tear out half a day’s work. We ended up being on-site gen contractors for this job, and probably saved the company thousands of dollars in labor and materials by catching the mistakes as they BEGAN to occur, instead of many hours into the job.
The insurance company agreed to pay the contractors a set amount, so I don’t know why I had to be so darned co-dependent about it. Maybe if the contractors realized how much time and money they were losing by having to tear stuff out and start over, they’d change their methods. But, NO….I have to point out problems, inform them they are installing materials we did not order, point out that the gorgeous Amish-made front door is WARPED (my vision is 20/400, and I had no difficulty spotting this from across the room, but they argued with me until the super arrived and measured and eyeballed and measured again and said I was right….), question them about what constitutes a mitered edge and what does NOT, etc.
Anyway, we didn’t save ourselves a cent by acting as gens, but you know? Somebody has to do it!
These past couple of weeks, we’ve had a hundred family events, too, culminating on Friday, when my wonderful son Scott and his beautiful wife Brooke moved from Kansas City to Austin, Texas. Can I get a major Boo-Hoo here? Seriously, O fallible ones! Two out of my three kids have moved away in the past six weeks. I’m sorry, but no matter how old the kids and how old the parents, it’s still hard. That’s not to say I don’t believe these moves will be good for my children—-I fully realize they will. It just stings, that’s all. But we deal, right? And we trust.
Now I’m getting ready to go to the annual conference of American Christian Fiction Writers in Denver. I’ll get to see my agent Rachelle Gardner there, plus SO MANY of my wonderful writer friends. Donald Maass, an acclaimed New York agent and author of “Writing the Break-out Novel” will be teaching an all day class in which the attendees get a chance to apply his methods to our works-in-progress. I can’t wait!
I had a private meeting with Mr. Maass at the Calvin Festival of Faith and Writing some years back. He read a sample of my work (I’d written exactly one novel scene in my entire life, and that’s what I showed him!) and gave me enough encouragement that he became my BFF. Honestly, I am thrilled for the opportunity to learn from him!
While we’re on the subject, no, my first novel (My Lawful Wedded Life) hasn’t yet found a publishing home. My agent sent out the book out to a number of publishers in February. Not everyone has responded (these things can take forever), but of those who did, we realized that the state of the economy did not help acquiring editors want to take a chance on a new novelist.
At any rate, I’ve had to move on psychologically. Work is well underway on the next novel, and I’m really excited about it. This time, instead of seat-of-the-pants (SOTP) writing, in which I do NOT plot or plan or outline or have a synopsis or have developed character profiles, I am doing pretty much the opposite.
What if it turns out that I am not a SOTP girl at all? What if I am a Plotter and just didn’t know it? So far, even though doing it this way obviously takes a LOT more work upfront, I am feeling so much more confidence that I’ve got a story in front of me, with compelling motivated characters, all ready to tell. What a relief to have something of an Authorial GPS System! I am fairly certain there will still be plenty of room for me to exercise my freewheeling, spontaneous side when I sit down to write. Outlines are made to be changed, right?
Once the conference is behind me, I’ll be full steam ahead on this new novel. Maybe it will be the first to sell, who knows? This whole publishing game takes a lot of guts, if you ask me. I know many authors whose first book got published, but if I’m not one of those people, I refuse to be embarrassed about it. I’m still on a steep learning curve here, and the days of me believing that writing novels should come naturally to me are long past. Now I just hope I have a sufficient number of good years left to become worthy of publication!
All prayers appreciated, as always. I ain’t gettin’ any younger over here!!
Drop me a comment and let me know what you’re doing! I promise to be a more frequent blogger after the conference…..
Crazy!
Just poppin’ in to say things are crazy here. I’m getting ready (yes, again!) to go to the American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW) conference four weeks from today. And guess what? This year, Doug’s going with me!
I’m really excited about that. Doug helps me so much with brainstorming, editing, and general encouragement to keep plugging away at this writing thing that it’s a shame for him to miss out on all the fun.
And, no, my first novel hasn’t been picked up by a publisher yet. The only cure for that is to write the next novel, which is now well underway. My wonderful agent Rachelle Gardner continues to inspire me and urge me onward and upward.
I’ll probably be sneaking over here when I get a chance, but for the next few weeks I’ve got to focus on getting some strong material ready to take with me to Denver. We’ll be privileged to sit in on the teaching of Donald Maass, a great agent who wrote Writing the Breakout Novel and The Career Novelist. I’ve only ever heard five-star reviews of his workshops, so we’re really looking forward to that.
Will check in again as time and novel-writing permit. I love each and every one of you loyal fallible ones, and don’t you forget it!
If Doug Had Seen This Movie Of Me As A Baby, He Might Not Have Ended Up With Chatty Katy
I’m kidding, of course. The baby in this video is not me. But honestly, it might as well be. This is THE funniest thing EVER.
I Can’t Believe We’re Finally Here
“Are we there yet?”
How many mile markers pass in our children’s lives, and how many times do we tap the brake to hold back the clock for even a few more moments? Invariably, one of them utters those words.
How is it that a child can smell hesitation? When a mother seems to falter—even if she only means to slow down enough to round the next bend—a little girl in the back seat startles herself awake and imagines she’s all grown up and ready to be there.
“It’s not about the destination,” I tell her. “Remember, life’s all about the journey.”
“I know, I know,” she says, with the impatience of a toddler. “But are we there yet?”
“Go back to sleep,” I say. “You’ll be there soon enough. Sweet dreams.”
And I drive on into the night, seeing only as far ahead as the scantily lit road allows, and no farther. How will I ever be able to take her where she wants to go? Can I see into her heart and know the plans God has planted there? Do I love the things she loves enough to guide her on the path He’s laying out before her?
She takes another nap, curled into cherubic roundness, hugging her bunny blanket more for its comfort than its warmth. She trusts me to stay awake on her behalf, to protect her from danger, and to move her closer to the place she’s dreaming of. A place she’s never seen, except when her languishing lashes flutter across her cheeks, but a place she believes in just the same.
Will I be counted worthy of her trust?
I stay the course. I don’t even blink for what feels in one way like years on end, but can’t possibly be. Somehow, though, I realize that when I peek over my shoulder to gaze at her in only a few moments, she’ll be older, not such a little girl anymore. I am scared to look.
“Are we there yet?”
I glance in the mirror at the sound of a young woman’s voice and see her stretch from her slumber, taller and strong. “Almost,” I say. “I hope I don’t miss the turn.”
“I can’t wait,” she says.
And she sits up straight and watches the road with me, as if she knows that I’m faltering here at the end. As if she knows that I’m weakening, and need her reassurance to continue following the map as it’s been written since before the foundation of time.
Everything looks so unfamiliar, though I swear I’ve been here once before, once long ago, when I was, in fact, a young woman her very age.
I’ve grown so sleepy that I swerve from my lane, lose my place in the grand scheme of our travels. She taps me on the shoulder.
“It’s my turn now, Mom. Why don’t you let me drive for a while?”
She takes the wheel and I fall asleep, but only for a moment. I dream of her childhood, and then of her grown-up beauty, of her wedding to a wonderful man. I dream of them choosing a path and following where He leads.
And then suddenly I’m awake once more, tears making riverbeds of my cheeks. And I hear her voice again, from far away, where I can’t look over my shoulder as I used to and smile down at her darling face.
“Mom, it’s me. We made it, we’re safe…”
“Oh, honey,” I say. “I’m so glad.” And then I laugh. “See, that didn’t take so long, did it?”
“I love you,” she says, and then I hear pure wonder in her words. “And I can’t believe we’re finally here.”
(Update: Here’s Carrie’s new blog from her new city.)
Why I’m Always Glad To Have Written
Recently, I’ve received two completely unexpected notes from fallible readers. They didn’t arrive via the comments section (Um….it’s mostly spam, I’m afraid. Feel free to change that!), but rather in personal correspondence.
One letter started out with these words: “Two years ago, you sent me a letter of comfort over the loss of my parent….” Do you know how it feels when you don’t QUITE remember doing something, but suddenly feel awfully glad to know you did? That’s the emotion that came over me when I read this lovely note.
The writer went on to say she was sorry it had taken her so long to respond, but that my words had touched her and helped in in a time of need. I cried when I read this, because for me to be counted among those who even occasionally bless someone else with encouragement, comfort, joy, or empathy makes all my feeble attempts worthwhile.
The second letter came through a private facebook message. The writer described herself as a “long-time fallible reader,” but upon seeing her signature and her own blog address, I knew exactly who she was. How could I forget her? We have commiserated together over more than one of our shared life experiences—-but admittedly, it had been a while.
She wrote to ask my advice on how to proceed with issues related to the care of an elderly parent. Of course, I am no expert, having only The Moms in my personal arsenal when it comes to acting as an advocate for the aged. But then she went on to say that even if I didn’t know the answer to her question, she wanted me to know how much my stories about our ladies had meant to her.
She appreciated the humor, the pathos, and the honesty with which I described the unfolding events of our lives. She said I had helped her as she referred back in her memory to some of my situations and applied them to the current difficulty she’s facing.
Again, I was completely astounded to receive such a letter. And blessed beyond what I can express here.
But this is what I want you to know: If you never write anything more than a sympathy card or a thank you note or a facebook comment, your writing means something. Your words touch others, affect their hearts and minds, bring them clarity, offer them wisdom, and—-always most importantly—-demonstrate your love.
Never underestimate the power of your words. Others are reading, and listening, and taking those words to heart. You’ll never hear from most of your readers. But every once in a while, one will reach out to you.
And then through your tears, you’ll remember all over again why you continue to write.
Happiness Is Locking In A Low Rate With The Man Of Your Dreams
It’s true. I am a sucker for a guy who talks refi with me.
Actually, I usually bring up the subject. It’s part of our division of labor, I guess. Doug’s activities are weighted a bit more heavily on the income side, and mine tend to concentrate around how to divvy up the income and, always, how to continue finding and implementing the most effective cost-cutting measures. Between the two of us, we get the job done, and isn’t that what marriage is all about?
We built this house nearly 15 years ago, and at the time we took out a 30-year loan. These days, with Doug being nearly 57 years old and with me being the age that I am (Ha!), I would not be comfortable taking out a 30-year loan, or even a 15-year loan.
In fact, I remember my father, gone lo these 25 years, talking about a friend of the family who, at age 65, took out a 30-year mortgage.
“He’s retiring next year!” Dad said. “You’re supposed to have burned your mortgage years before you retire.”
My dad wasn’t just blowing smoke. He and Mom purchased their third and final home when I was six years old. By the time I, their oldest child, graduated from high school, they had paid off the house. They’d taken out a 20-year loan, and in 11 years, that puppy was history.
I’ll admit I’ve never gotten in the habit of making extra payments to my principal. But we have refinanced several times since our first mortgage on this house, which was at 8.25%. And each time, we’ve decreased the term of the loan as well as the rate.
When we closed on this refi last week, we signed paperwork for a 10-year loan at 4.625%. We had 11 years left on our previous 15-year loan, which was at 5.875%. That doesn’t sound like it would change our financial picture too much, but it really does.
If we were to take 10 full years to pay off this house (which we won’t, because the remaining mortgage is so small…), not only would we have one full year at the end without payments, but we would have saved nearly $50,000 besides! Yes, our house payment just went down a cool $400 per month.
I’m a believer in cutting small expenses where it makes sense, but sometimes those big ones can be trimmed without too terribly much effort and the return on your investment of a few hours time can be tremendous.
One day in the not-too-distant future, I plan to host an Old-Fashioned Mortgage Burning Party with the man of my dreams.
Call me my father’s daughter, but I can’t imagine anything better.
Hail, Hail, The Dang’s All Here!
Dang! And, technically, ding, too!
Hail dings, that is. And lots of them. It all went down (in a rather sideways kind of way…) eight days ago and life has been a bit of a whirlwind ever since.
But our homeowners insurance company has cut us the first (but not the last) check, and the outfit who will be replacing the roof and siding on our entire house is working up their bid as we speak. I’ve seen more measuring tapes whipped out and more blueprints mulled over this past week than at any time since we built this house fifteen years ago. Whew!
Our two neighbors to the south (the only ones we’ve spoken to so far) also will be making claims, so I’m glad to find out it wasn’t just us. I’d talked to everyone in my family to see if their properties were OK, and they all replied with some variation of “What hail?”
Sometimes in life, you kind of feel like a target for crazy stuff to happen to you, and well, the stigma is more than I need right now. :) So yeah, I’m grateful we’re not completely alone!
We didn’t plan on hosting a boatload of contractors this summer and fall, but hey, we will deal. I’m going to take some before and after pics of the old homestead, too, so you can see the transformation as it takes place.
In the meantime, here are a few storm pics for your viewing pleasure. The insurance company appreciated that we’d taken these, since only our particular area in KC actually reported hail like this on that day.
Saturday Night Fever
Doug and I went to a really fun party Saturday night, at the home of our church friends, Ken and Cheryl.
The weather was just perfect, so the large crowd of Sunday School buddies roamed in and out of the house, onto the deck, out to the strawberry patch for some random nibbling, and then back inside. We ate turducken, which was delish, along with a yummy assortment of potluck offerings to die for.
But it wasn’t the food that killed me.
My dumb chronic headache, which started off at only a low roar but built toward the end of the evening, finally prompted me to begin signaling Doug that it was time to go home.
You know the kind of non-verbal sign language I’m talking about, right? I mean, I didn’t want to walk up to him while he was deep in conversation with another fellow and blurt out, “Doug, I’m sick. Let’s blow this pop stand.” THAT’S not how you make friends and influence people!
The first time I walked past him (on my way to the trash can with a pile of paper plates), I coughed in a rather exaggerated manner as if I just might require the Heimlich, caught his gaze, and raised the eyebrow directly over the eye that always has the stabbing pain. OK, not overly subtle, I know. But Doug can’t interpret subtleties very well and I figured the other guy probably couldn’t, either.
I figured right. Neither of them jumped up to deliver me of a phantom lodged turducken bone and Doug kept right on talking about…whatever.
I got involved in chatting with a lovely gal from Ireland and thoroughly enjoyed myself for who-knows-how-long before I realized that the ringing in my deaf ear had ramped up to fever pitch, as it always does in loud environments. If you’ve never experienced an escalating stabbing pain in your right eye at the same time as you’re experiencing a ramped-up tinnitus that won’t die down for at least 24 hours after the party’s over, you haven’t lived. Trust me on this.
So I slithered my way through the jam-packed house and back out onto the deck. I saw Doug out near the grill with a couple of guys and when I waved, I know he saw me, too. I raised my index finger to my eye and used it to simulate a knife, air-jabbing myself repeatedly for maximum effect. He couldn’t possibly miss THAT message, could he? Any second now, he’d abandon his conversation and come to my rescue.
In the meantime, I found a group of girls I hadn’t had a chance to talk to yet, sitting at a round table with one empty chair, and passed a wonderful half-hour laughing my fool head off over their antics.
As darkness fell, I headed back to the kitchen and saw Doug standing near the island, picking at desserts and oblivious to my withered condition. I grabbed my purse from a corner of the floor and aimed his way. Nothing would stop me this time! I hesitated momentarily to gather up my salad container and darned if another friend didn’t start yakking.
I smiled and nodded and tried to be friendly, but it was too late. I was done for.
I partially turned away from my friend to give my Final Marital Signal of the night. If Doug didn’t get the message this time, I didn’t know what I’d do. Without missing the end of Fred’s joke, I started rubbing Doug’s back. Very nicely, very persuasively, very…affectionately. If I couldn’t get him to take me home any other way, maybe I could make him think I might make leaving, ahem, worth his while.
Without even quite intending to, I actually patted his behind.
And then, as if on cue, the crowded room fell silent, though somewhere in the recesses of my pitiful consciousness, I recall hearing the smallest of gasps. With my hand still THERE, he slowly turned around and said one word, with a solemnity I will never forget.
“Katy.”
“AAaaacccckkkk!” I screamed, at the sight of…Steve. “I thought you were my HUSBAND!”
We fled within seconds, to reverberating peals of hilarious laughter. Heck, I only opened the door to one kitchen closet before finding the door to the garage. Most Embarrassing Moment EVER? Oh, yeah.
And, I’ve gotta say, a tremendously effective use of body language, too.
Fool Me Twice? I Don’t Think So!
Seven weeks or so ago, the catalytic converter went out on our 2002 Saturn wagon. You might remember the story of how the mechanic insulted me and all “little women” everywhere when I asked if I could take a diagnostic message for my soon-to-be-home husband and he said, “Well, if you DO, will I just have to say it all over again when he calls me back?”
Insults are not a deal breaker for me, though. I am WAY too mature not to be ultimately swayed by competent work at a fair price. So I attempted to buck up and take it like a….girl.
But when he told us that catalytic converters for our car could only be purchased through the dealer and we found him to be lying, well. For me, when that happens, all bets are off. Anyway, we ordered the HUGELY-less-expensive-than-he-quoted part online, had it delivered to his shop, where he marked it up as much as he dared and installed it. As far as I was concerned, we’d never be dealing with him again.
Last Saturday, the same car died right after we’d gotten off I-70 and onto a road with significantly slower moving traffic. I mean, we were driving along just fine, with the car making no strange noises and behaving exactly as it should, and then—-nothing. The car just stopped running and we were fortunate to slide into a parking lot before every last ounce of forward momentum came to an end.
We’ve got AAA, so we called a tow truck after realizing that the car would simply not restart. But, silly us, we had no idea where to have it towed, except for to the place I swore I’d never go again.
Plus, we were fully 30 minutes from our home AND my back was COMPLETELY out to the point that I could barely get in and out of any car much less the tow truck that I was going to have to climb into AND we’d just driven 2 hours surrounded by 18-wheelers which is not my idea of fun AND the Xanax was running awfully low. Suffice it to say, I was in a weakened condition, and poor Doug had limited choices.
Monday morning, Doug checked in with the mechanic, who said he’d check the car out and let us know. Took him till Tuesday to call back with the news. It’s the timing belt (or is it the timing chain?), a problem that TONS of Saturns have been recalled for. The happy owners of Saturns ranging in birth years from 1998 to 2001 had their repairs done for FREE, since the part is defective. But not so with the 2002 owners! That’s what we get for driving a new car! Ha.
Said mechanic quoted us a price of $2060. DOLLARS! Doug actually felt desperate enough over that amount of moolah to ask the guy if he might want to purchase the car as-is. “Sure. I’ll give you $600 for it.”
The car only has 100,000 miles on it! I planned to drive it several more years, or longer. It’s one thing to be insulted because I’m a girl, but quite another to insult the value of my perfectly-fine-till-last-Saturday car! Once again, I’d had it.
“Get the name of another mechanic,” I told Doug. “Maybe Fred knows somebody….”
Fred is a good friend from church, and why didn’t we think of him sooner? Fred doesn’t just know somebody. Fred knows everybody!
Turns out there is a mechanic approximately 40 feet down the road from The Mechanic Formerly Known As Ours. The new guy hauled our car to his joint yesterday. He feels certain, if the first guy’s diagnosis turns out to be accurate, that he can do the job for $1200.
I don’t know about you, but to me, the difference between $2060 and $1200 is WAY more than $860. All of a sudden, I feel like we’re hooked up with someone we might be able to trust. And someone who maybe, just maybe, won’t diss me or my personal property.
In certain scenarios, I might pay extra for that kind of treatment. But it looks like, at least this time, I won’t have to.
