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Everyday Ordinary Dawnings




I don't think the training wheels were attached properly. Yes. I'm going with that. But whatever the reason, I kept falling off my bike with those stupid training wheels. So that muggy, mosquito-filled evening after supper, I promised Dad I would be riding on my own before dark, and begged him to take the wretched training wheels off. He grabbed a wrench and we headed out.

Back and forth he ran with me. I pedaled wildly and wobbled on two wheels; he ran awkwardly, white knuckling the back of my bike seat.

And then, of course—you know the story.

When dad felt that I was ready and while I was busy remembering to pedal and look forward at the same time as trying to stay balanced, he let go.


I was riding alone. Until I realized I was riding alone.

Then I was a 5-year-old heap of scraped knees, palms, and pride in the middle of Bannister Road.

In chapter three Annie Dillard likens the writing process to chopping wood. She learned to do that one winter to both stay warm in her writing cottage and to put off writing. We writers tend to do that—put off writing as long as possible. More on that in a minute. For Dillard, chopping wood was an exercise in frustration with little success until she found a strategy that worked.

"You aim at the chopping block, not at the wood; then you split the wood, instead of chipping it. You cannot do the job cleanly unless you treat the wood as the transparent means to an end, by aiming past it" (Dillard, p. 43).

When you're learning to ride a bike, you can ride only as long as you are looking past the bike to where you are headed.


When you look the writing process in the eye, or watch the wood instead of the chopping block or the bike instead of the horizon, you wind up with wood chips and skinned elbows and nothing on the page.

Then, true to form, Dillard spends the bulk of the chapter describing how wrong the writing process can go when you stare it down, which of course every writer will eventually do.

You become a neurotic, twitching, irrational, crazy person.

One who complicates things:
"How fondly I recall thinking, in the old days, that to write you needed paper, pen, and a lap. How appalled I was to discover that, in order to write so much as a sonnet, you need a warehouse. You can easily get so confused writing a thirty-page chapter that in order to make an outline for the second draft, you have to rent a hall" (Dillard, p. 46).

One who procrastinates:
"At once I noticed that I was writing—which, as the novelist Frederick Buechner noted, called for a break, if not a full-scale celebration. ... I wrote four or five sentences on a gamble, smoked more to stimulate the brain or stop the heart, whichever came first, and reheated a fourth mug of coffee. ... Why not adopt a baby, design a curriculum, go sailing?" (Dillard, p.50, 51).

One who much prefers distraction to actual writing:
"If only I could concentrate. I must quit. I was too young to be living at a desk. many fine people were out there living, people whose consciences permitted them to sleep at night despite their not having written a decent sentence that day, or ever" (Dillard, p. 51).

So if you think the writing life is all Hemingway and Paris, think again. Only neurotic, irrational, crazy people become writers. It's no easy task. And it surely is not romantic and glamorous. Every writing book I've read so far speaks to this issue. And boy, can we have issues.

I've come to the conclusion that writing, with practice, becomes harder.

"You are wrong if you think you can in any way take a vision and tame it to the page. The page is jealous and tyrannical; the page is made of time and matter; the page always wins" (Dillard, p. 57).

I think the only reason I keep at it is because I did eventually learn to ride that bike.


I'm exploring The Writing Life by Annie Dillard and my own writing life on Fridays.
February 27, 2014 1 comments
I, Dawn, (the girl I was then, with my few life experiences and my naïve view of the world, together with my blood relatives somewhat in tow,  my friends, my pet peeves and my penchant for fingernail polish, with my fears and unfinished business, my short-comings and my need for ducks to line up in neat rows, and the fluidity of these issues that changed who I became over time)

Take you, Mike, (the man I was head over heels for, who also changed over time, with more education, future ventures gained and lost, with your career change, your zeal, your coffee too strong for me to drink, your daring, your love of softball and your unflinching convictions)
To be my wedded (joined forevermore on legal papers and in my heart) husband.

To have and to hold (that you are mine to share with none other, you whom I keep and treasure above all else and others, to think that you gave yourself to me — how exquisite indeed),
From this day forward (that moment that was monumental, when "I do" and "I will" changed utterly everything afterward, never to be undone),

For better (celebration hospital meals in the presence of a newborn, snow in Mississippi, promotions, honesty whispered in the dark cheek to cheek, Christmas mornings, and your earlobe),
For worse (there's been an accident, you're fired, it's cancer, you'll never understand!, burned pots, stranded and left on the shoulder of the interstate in Atlanta with a van full of youth, throwing a plate, disappointments, almost running out of gas, yelling, costly mistakes),

For richer (I start Monday!, Graduation Day (x2), Disney, automatic transmission and a sun roof, we got the house!, it's a boy followed by a few girls),
For poorer (dorm life, praying to find stray coins behind the back seat of the car for gas money, you're fired, Hudson's Salvage Center, U Haul, Disney),

In sickness (he's in ICU and may not make it through the night, lost in a strange city frantically seeking the hospital parking garage, all night prayer vigils that God will spare him  for the sake of a 10 month old, following an ambulance, hospital stink, both of us between the bed rails)
And in health (laps at the seminary campus, around Laurel High School track, and while the toddler watched from the storm door, P90X together in the garage — Bring it!, Jenny Craig, a kitchen cabinet full of whole food supplements),

To love and to cherish (toes that find each other in sleep, speaking volumes without a word, inside jokes like "good morning!", holding hands for no reason in the car)
Til death do us part (only one lifetime?)

And hereto I pledge (as in yes and amen) you my faithfulness (endless dirty dishes and laundry piles notwithstanding).
~ ~ ~ ~

This is what I vowed (and what I now know those vows meant, and what I would do all over again given half a chance.)

One plus one equals one (plus God's beautiful, infinite possibilities).





An edited repost from the archives to celebrate 25 years of marriage.
Sharing with Jennifer today.

February 25, 2014 3 comments
Cover Photo

I read  Anne Lamott's Bird By Bird and learned how to listen to the accursed radio station of static random thoughts running through the writer's head while she's trying to write. Lamott describes the process so effectively, she taught me how to do it, rather than how not to.

Mary Demuth swears by the BOC (Butt On Chair) method of writing, regardless of whether the writing muse shows up or not. I rarely do this.

Stephen King's On Writing suggests setting a daily time requirement or a daily word count. He also says to have a book with you at all times and read while you're waiting in the checkout lane. I fail at this too.

Julia Cameron swears by morning pages. I love the idea. Really, I do, but I've yet to try it. She says to use pen and paper, except I can't make a pen crank out 90 words a minute, nor erase as seamlessly as a backspace key. Even important greeting card sentiments from me are composed on the computer, then copied in my penmanship on the card itself. Pathetic, I know.

So I fell in love with Annie Dillard in chapter two of The Writing Life. She’s having as much trouble taking her own writing advice as I do.

She says to find a simple writing space that’s solely devoted to writing and free of distraction. But the entire chapter is a description in minute detail of every beautiful thing going on around her, both inside and outside her writing room. 

"If I craned my head, I could see a grassy playing field below. One afternoon I peered around at the field and saw a softball game. Since I happened to have my fielder's glove with me in my study, I thought it would be the generous thing to join the game. ... They could not all play ball ... . It was slightly better than no softball, so I played with them every day..."

I love her, and maybe there's hope for me.



I used to write at our desktop in the piano room after the kids finished their homeschooling or were in bed. I've migrated to a laptop at the kitchen counter with a barstool. It has become my makeshift desk. It’s continually littered with bills, school permission slips, and a stack of various books. My Christmas cards are still in that stack. My bible, latest publication deadline, and more than one To Do list is never far away.

I have plunked my writing life in the eye of my storm. And despite the unheeded writing advice and the writing space carved out of the epicenter of my life, I manage to actually get some writing done.

So there's hope for me.

One day, Dillard stopped the madness. She shut the blinds in her writing nook. She drew a crude picture of the scene outside so as not to lose touch with the world completely.

Dillard finishes the earlier passage with this: "If I had possessed the skill, I would have painted, directly on the slats of the lowered blind, in meticulous colors, a trompe l'oeil mural view of all that the blinds hid. Instead, I wrote it."

She recycled her distractions as inspiration. 

Finally, writing advice I can implement.

 
February 21, 2014 4 comments
Sometimes you just have to rebel against the hard times.

My cousin Tammy has been struggling through some of life's most difficult circumstances. She buried her mother at the end of an inspiring battle with inoperable cancer. Six months later she lost her 17-year-old son Elijah in a car accident. Two months after that, her husband was diagnosed with cancer and commenced upon eight weeks of daily treatment. The Davis family is suffering.



Tammy told me that well-meaning friends are uncomfortable with her grief and suffering, and hope to hurry her along to healing and brighter days with comments like, "It's going to get better."

The thing is, Tammy knows what she really deserves is death and that there are no promises for any earthly tomorrow to be better. She's had so many trials pile up high that I can see how it would be easy to hold your breath and brace for the next round of bad news that surely must be coming. So Tammy's clinging to her God even if tragedy stays for a lifetime. Determined, she declares, "God is enough."

I agree, but...

that God who is enough? He's also a God of redemption. And sometimes you just have to rebel against the sad times with a little bit of hope that leads to happiness.

When Jeremiah penned the oft-quoted "I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to give you a future and a hope," it wasn't pie-in-the-sky. Israel was being carted off in chains to pagan lands in her day of final defeat. Jeremiah offered hope for a brighter tomorrow to Israel in their darkest day.

When Jeremiah lamented, "His mercies are new every morning, great is thy faithfulness," he wasn't full of writing inspiration because life looked bright and hopeful. Rather, he was grieving.

But he didn't write, "We don't deserve any better than this from a holy God," although it was true. Instead, Jeremiah said, "God has a plan, and it isn't for us to grieve forever."

If God causes grief, then He will have compassion according to his abundant lovingkindness. He doesn't afflict willingly or grieve the sons of men (Lamentations 3:32-33).

Jeremiah kicked his sadness in the teeth. I doubt he felt like doing it, but he countered his grief and the loss of his nation with a longing gaze toward future times that God promised would be brighter. Those words of hope must have been hard-won. And Jeremiah didn't just speak them, he wrote them. Boldly.

And you can too. Maybe you, like Tammy and Israel, are in a season of suffering. Maybe you're struggling through sadness, hard times, the end of your marriage. Maybe your questions outnumber your answers. Maybe you're just weary of winter, or worse, it's a metaphor for layer after layer of cold, opaque, heavy, snow-silence atop the dead earth of your life.


Well, take heart. Rebel against it. Shake those cold, stiff bones and practice your high kick so you can knock out a few teeth, like Jeremiah did. God is a victor and vanquishes foes like suffering, grief, despair, and depression. Let him do it again—for you this time. Dare to believe Jeremiah's bold hope.

Put on your dancing shoes for just 3 minutes and move to the beat. Throw off the spirit of heaviness and put on the garment of hope and redemption. That's what we have to cling to in the dark, cold days of winter, in suffering and despair.

That's what a remnant of Israel did for 70 years of captivity. They lived like rebels in the face of defeat. They more than survived in less than ideal circumstances. They started businesses, opened savings accounts, married, and started families. They more than survived. They thrived.


That remnant refused to swallow what they knew they deserved. Instead, hope against hope, they brazenly clung to a God of compassion who loves to redeem. Jeremiah's untimely platitudes in the face of such suffering was received by a remnant as hope, real hope. They sank their teeth in it and nourished themselves with it.

That's quite a challenge in the face of adversity, but it can be done. When we do, it's audacious and inspiring.

So a dance party might be in order for you today. Yes, it's good and necessary to grieve, but we don't grieve as those who have no hope. We have a God whose compassion never fails and whose mercies are new every morning. And that's worth a dance party.

I think Elijah, with his heavenly perspective—which I'm jealous of, by the way—would approve of our spontaneous celebration to combat our light and temporary trials. Jeremiah would too.

Yes, we must grieve. There is a time and place for suffering, and it's not healthy to rush through it. But in light of our future, suffering's façade sneers at us with its a big toothy, overconfident, boastful grin just begging to be bashed by some hope. All you gotta do is move. Sing. Dance. Wear the garment of praise for three minutes until you are spent with celebration. Your suffering might be waiting for you at the other end of the song, but its position in your life will be diminished and its grin will be toothless.


February 20, 2014 No comments

How trusting are you of God's trustworthiness?

It sounds a little like a trick question, but there is nothing that we do in relation to God that is detached from faith. We either act in it or apart from it.

But faith doesn't come easily. It comes from God—that should be easy enough. But, although he is eager to give it freely and generously, we have to want faith before he bestows it. Sometimes we don't want faith because it's irrational and a whole lot of scary and you might even think of your own self as a wacko.

Let me explain.

When Mike felt God's clear and distinct call to ministry, he quit his full time job—the one that paid our bills, became a student again, and looked for a part time job in ministry. We then sat in our living room alone, rocking back and forth in prayer, offering our irresponsible-in-earthly-terms act of faith to God in response to his call. Even I thought we were crazy.

Faith is a little crazy and a whole lot of fear because God's plan is unpredictable.  Yet he calls us to it and equips us for it just the same.

A few examples of faith in action:
  • Moses going to pharaoh with the absurd news that God wants him to let his nation's slave labor walk away.
  • Abraham packing up his life and leaving on a life journey to God knows where.
  • Abraham tying up his son to be sacrificed trusting that, knowing God, this will somehow end well.
  • Joshua marching around a city with trumpet fanfare as a conquering strategy, trusting what God has said on the matter. "Yes, Joshua, this is the most excellent way to overtake a city," (because surely Joshua asked incredulously, "Are you quite sure, God?!")
The list could fill a book. Well, it does—66 books actually, and then some.

God has a wild imagination. If zebras and giraffes don't prove it, maybe a look at how God does what he says he will do will convince you.
  • God made what looked to man like the Red Sea and, hence, a dead end a walking trail out of Egypt.
  • God used the death of deity in the flesh to usher in eternal life for his fallen creation.
  • God took a century-old couple and made them parents.
"Faith makes visible God's invisible arrangement," writes de Treville Bowers. Further, God's invisible arrangement can be unimaginable to us. God's doings are so outrageous, we would never see it coming in a million years.
 
But God sees it and he does immeasurably more than all we imagine—often in most unconventional ways that will delight us if we trust him.

He usually doesn't tell us his plan before he includes us in its unfolding. Getting to be a part of God's plan should be enough for us. God asks that we simply trust him, and believe that, somehow and no matter what, it's going to be glorious.


He is pleased only by what we do in our faith and finds no pleasure in us when we shrink back (Hebrews 10: 38).

But it's tempting to shrink back:
  • when you're marching ridiculously around Jericho. 
  • when God uses a fish to rescue your rebel self from drowning only to give you a second chance to speak his word.
  • when you're rocking alone in your living room fearful and jobless.
  • when you're obedient, and it looks outrageous, and people think you are a whole lot of crazy.
We must resist shrinking back in crucial moments because distrust always precedes disobedience. Eventually every minute of our life will be tried by fire in eternity for the sole purpose of proving what of our lives was accomplished by faith and what was not.

So there it is. The great big question God keeps asking through the ages. Even though he's proved himself countless times by now, and even though, regardless of that fact, we still squirm: How trusting are you of his trustworthiness?

I'm praying my answer is "Enough to do a whole lot of crazy, enough to do the ridiculous and unimaginable, enough to do unpredictable exploits for the Lord that are unmistakable, the kind that happen only when we have faith."

Amen—May it be so.







February 17, 2014 1 comments
I had to read chapter one twice to be able to write about it. Dillard writes with respect for her readers' intellect, allowing them to do much of the hard work of understanding.

She speaks plainly by using metaphor to convey her ideas, which should be easy enough for the reader. But she leaves the dots unconnected and the reader to draw the conclusions.

Some of her metaphors include comparing the writing process to
  • an inchworm groping his way through grass one blade at a time, 
  • climbing a ladder to a view yet unseen, 
  • a starfish which will literally pull off its own limb if need be for its own good,
  • searching for a honey tree by following pollen-laden bees, and 
  • cutting one's own flesh to use as bait.

After the second reading, I saw her main thrust to be this: for writing to be good writing, it takes hard work over a long time. Then I noticed her epigraph at the beginning of the chapter and knew I was on the right track.

Do not hurry; do not rest.  —Goethe

Note to self: pay attention to the epigraphs for subsequent chapters. It may or may not keep you from rereading the chapter.

In chapter one Dillard tells of an Algonquin woman who saved herself and her baby from starvation by cutting flesh from her own thigh to use as bait to catch fish. We talked at length in the group about cutting into ourselves and digging deep to become the meat of our own stories.

But I made much of the actual use of flesh as bait, rather than the self-inflicted wounding. While self-wounding is sometimes necessary, showing our humanity in our writing is always necessary. The writer's humanity reaches the reader's humanity when the reader responds to the writing by thinking yes, that's exactly how I would say it if I could put it into words myself.

I want to write like that. I want flesh to be on my writer's hook.

Dillard writes on page 12, "To find a honey tree, first catch a bee. Catch a bee when its legs are heavy with pollen; then it is ready for home. ... Bee after bee will lead toward the honey tree."

Dillard is telling writers to follow a thought or idea as far as it will take you. Then wait for the next thought or idea and follow it. 

All this talk of honey trees and bees made me think of A. A. Milne's Winnie the Pooh. (See why I think Dillard is hard reading?)

Milne is a master at following a bear to a honey tree to find valuable humanity in a treetop.
A few examples:

  • “Sometimes,' said Pooh, 'the smallest things take up the most room in your heart.”  
  • “How do you spell 'love'?" - Piglet. "You don't spell it...you feel it." - Pooh”
  • “Well," said Pooh, "what I like best," and then he had to stop and think. Because although Eating Honey was a very good thing to do, there was a moment just before you began to eat it which was better than when you were, but he didn't know what it was called.”

This is why we love Pooh. These flesh-gems that Milne discovered when he followed his writing to where it would lead him.

Dillard could even quote Pooh to further describe the writing life.

“When you are a Bear of Very Little Brain, and you Think of Things, you find sometimes that a Thing which seemed very Thingish inside you is quite different when it gets out into the open and has other people looking at it.”

Dillard would say, "Delete it—ruthlessly"

“But it isn't easy,' said Pooh. 'Because Poetry and Hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. And all you can do is to go where they can find you.”

As a writer, I want to go where the words will find me. I want to gather those words and then dangle the live bait for the reader to nibble. In fact, I want more than bait. I want my words to provide a feast of truth and insight into oneself that satisfies to the quick of the human soul.

Dillard writes on page 17, "The written word is weak. Many people prefer life to it. Life gets your blood going, and it smells good. Writing is mere writing, literature is mere. It appeals only to the subtlest senses—the imagination's vision, and the imagination's hearing—and the moral sense, and the intellect."

Writing is difficult to do well, and therefore equally as satisfying to find done well, or even possibly to do well myself. Though it be long and arduous, the pursuit of the honey tree is, for the writer, a lifelong expedition.

**This is a post about Chapter 1 of Annie Dillard's The Writing Life, a book I am reading in community with some wonderful ladies through (in)courage. Many have asked about joining the group. It is currently closed. Watch the (in)courage.me community groups page for new offerings in the fall if you are interested in joining a group when registration will be open again. Until then, I invite you to come along on my journey through The Writing Life right here on Fridays.
February 13, 2014 3 comments
I traded cars with my husband last evening, gesturing wildly to let him know I would pick up Noelle from dance. Holding the phone to my face with one finger while my purse dangled from the other four, I managed to open the car door and slide into the new driver's seat without giving myself away to the man on the other end of the phone or dropping the pink folder full of my notes.

It was a phone interview—impromptu but important. I was multi-tasking to meet a deadline, and that, more than any other thing, describes my writing life. I've had to do it on top of all life's other responsibilities, and it often looks like a frantic woman changing cars in the Publix parking lot or running late for work.

In the beginning was the word (John 1:1), and that is where it all started.

I fell in love with reading, the written word, long before I discovered that writing thrilled me as much, if not more. So I majored in English in college and wrote about literature. Youth is the intoxicating mixture of ambition, inexperience, and blissful ignorance, so I dreamed of book-signings or my picture beside a magazine editor's column or roaming the marbled offices of New York's publishing houses. Maybe all of them. I don't remember—it was a long time ago.
 
And then real life happened, as it often does, not exactly how you had planned.

But so much of it was good. A husband, his graduate school, a modest mortgage, then three little progenies. Soon I could hardly remember how to carry an adult conversation, much less my illustrious desire to write poignant, profound passages. And so it was, until I was the homeschooling mom of three tweens 14 years later in 2009.
 
That's when I met Lindsay.

She photographed our church staff and then our family one cold misty afternoon in November. With one eye squinting into the camera and digital clicks filling the air around us, she said, "I blog," two words that would change so much for me. They flitted lightly thought the foggy air like an uncaged butterfly. A casual comment that was somehow bold and defiant would gently bend my life in a new direction, only I didn't know it yet.

A month later, I had acquainted myself with Lindsay's blog and we were winding down homeschooling for Christmas. I began a new read aloud book with my daughters, The Island of the Blue Dolphin. We read the first two chapters, and I hurried upstairs to change for work. I couldn't shift gears mentally, though. The ideas from the book niggled. They teamed up, reproduced, and organized themselves into a picketing workforce that demanded to be heard.

Dressed for work, I acquiesced. I sat at the computer, laid down the car keys beside me, and let the words have their way into the world. I posted it, unedited, as a Facebook note.

I was 45 minutes late for work and more alive inside myself than I had been since I was pregnant.

By February of 2010, I had read enough of Lindsay's blog to know two things: I can do that, and I want to do that. So one more blog entered cyberspace.

The next year I joined a local writers group where strangers became friends and was published in a local magazine. I've contributed to an online site for two years and regularly contribute to two Christian magazines with feature articles and personal essays.

I cashed my first writer's paycheck in 2012 and did the happy dance unashamed in my kitchen.

To write with a full-time job, three teenagers, and pastor's wife duties, it can get a little crazy. Sometimes dinner burns. Sometimes I set the alarm to go off early or write through my lunch hour. Sometimes—okay, last night—I even pretended to listen to my husband tell me a little about his day while my mind stayed on this unfinished sentence. Yes, that very one.

I carve out the time by multi-tasking so I can write. My writing life may not look like the slick, glossy book covers and the posh publishing houses of my younger self's imaginings. But a version of the dream lives on in the older me, the woman with dark circles under her eyes, an untouched To Do list, and a willingness to stop in a grocery store parking lot in not one but two makeshift car-offices to conduct an interview for the next article.

Cover Photo

I'm writing in community with some beautiful girls from (in)courage. We're reading and discussing Annie Dillard's The Writing Life, and I'll be reflecting on the book and my own writing life here on Fridays for the next eight weeks. I invite you to read along and be inspired to dust off your own youthful dreams and drag them back into your real life, where they belong.
  
February 07, 2014 9 comments
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About Me

About Me
Dawn is a writer, Bible teacher, speaker, and pastor's wife. She co-founded Columbia World Outreach Church in Columbia, South Carolina with her husband, Mike. By day, Dawn manages a law firm. In the leftover hours she writes for various online and print publications. You are welcome here. What you will find is real life and a faith that's a living organism -- which is to say it's growing and sometimes cranky, exuberant, stinky, wobbly, petulant, overconfident, tired, satisfying, and beautiful. May you find here some courage to own your own days and your own unfinished faith.

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