How A Book Launch Quilted The Pieces of My Heart Together

Healing takes time, and time is something I seem to have very little of. So when my father passed away very unexpectantly several years ago, as an only child I shifted into survival mode; checking on mom and making the necessary adjustments.  I gave myself very little time to grieve, and that was probably calculated to some extent.

Reading takes time, and time is something I seem to have very little of. So when my dear Emily asked me to be on her book launch team and read her first piece of fiction, A Promise In Pieces, part of me groaned.  Between running a non-profit, attempting to blog here and there, writing a novel, being a brand new freelance blogger at Family Fire, promoting a children’s picture book and caring for my family, the request seemed like another thing to add to an increasingly long “to-do” list.

But God…He is so good at multi-tasking!  I began reading this novel, and enjoying the strong female characters as I was drawn into their world…but as I continued I couldn’t put the book down.  What was the Holy Spirit doing here?  I wondered.  It seemed as though the last portion of the book so closely mirrored an area of my life that it was uncanny.  Soon I found myself sobbing, something I don’t believe I have ever done while reading, even the most sorrowful of stories.  And I wasn’t sobbing because the story was sad, but because Emily’s words caused me to take a journey where I hadn’t allowed myself to go years ago.  Now that the floodgates were opened, I couldn’t seem to stop the tears from falling.

And isn’t that the way God is? He gives rest to the weary, and in due time He comforts us as we grieve until we are broken. Then he sews up the scraps like the pieces of quilt in Emily’s book and creates a beautiful menagerie of brokenness, patched up and ready to bring warmth and comfort to others.

No matter how bright the light inside you, if everything around you is oppressively dark it begins to leak in through your eyes and eventually you either have to die or find a miracle.  And I found one. – A Promise in Pieces

That’s exactly what this book was for me…a miracle.  I am convinced that it is possible that God had Emily write this book, labor of love, hours of work, just. for. me.  Just so that I could face through another character what I wasn’t willing or able to face through my own character.

Healing takes time.  Reading takes time.  Death is the ultimate time taker. God used the gift He placed in Emily to patch up my heart, and I can not thank Him or her enough.

 

Emily Wierenga’s gook will be available on Amazon, April 15th. Would you consider becoming part of AmazonSmiles and choosing, Love INC of Tinley as your preferred charity? See the side bar for a link.

 

We’re Walking Each Other Home – Guest Post by Emily Wierenga

Emily needs no introductions here a Painting Prose, because she’s the reason we’ve been spending time together on Wednesday and Thursdays. We love her, don’t we? And it’s time for me to walk you home to her place, because next week Imperfect Prose will be resuming. Thank you for the privilege of hosting this most beautiful community. I have loved every minute of it.

i made spaghetti last night, and it might have been a mistake. but i drank my glass of white wine and wound noodles round my fork while the boys slopped red across the kitchen.

“what’s this called?” joey asked, pulling the noodle between his lips and i told him it’s “slurping.” slurping noodles. one of life’s grandest and least classy of learnings.

“God is everywhere and all around and in every people?” he asked me then, my god-son who’s living with us while his mom finishes school. and his brother slapped at his lettuce leaves as kasher rolled around in his walker muttering to himself and aiden ate parmesan cheese.

and trent and i, searching out the door for patches of blue.

“yes, yes he is,” i said.

“he’s sitting here beside me, and in the bathtub, and all over my bed?” Joey asked. spaghetti all over his bathrobe and face and there’s not enough soap in the world…

“that’s right.”

no blue sky today, just one heavy cloud. i drank my wine a little too quickly and look at the clock. perhaps we could get them to bed a bit earlier tonight.

but then it was as though the years heaved and i could hear them growing, these boys all gangly and long, like sentences winding into paragraphs. and i hadn’t taken the time to read them, for the hurry to wash behind their ears and mop the floor and take out the trash. i hadn’t stopped to make them laugh, to find out their favorite color, to race them in the soggy spring grass.

God is everywhere and in all things and every people and he’s here among us in our children. if we would only look closer. and he’s in all of us, all awkward and gangly and it’s this that i want to celebrate with you. this awkwardness. this beauty of being clumsy and far-sighted and absolutely adored by the Creator of the Universe.

so let’s take the time to read each other. to marvel as sentences weave into paragraphs. let’s not try to perfect what only heaven can. instead, let’s be messed-up weirdos, walking each other home.

and i think i was mistaken. there was blue sky all along. i was just looking in the wrong places.

(this coming wednesday, on april 11, we’ll be re-starting ‘imperfect prose on thursdays’: a place for the broken to band together; a place to call home. things have changed a bit, but the premise is the same. so won’t you join me? and in the meantime, will you help me give dear kd sullivan a standing ovation for her humble hosting these past weeks? she is God’s grace in my life. love you all.)

If you are new, please check out Emily’s blog. It is one of the most beautiful places on earth, and you need to be acquainted with the woman who made all of this happen!

<a href=”https://journeytoepiphany.wordpress.com&#8221; target=”_blank”><img src=”https://journeytoepiphany.files.wordpress.com/2012/02/pp-e1328715484812.jpg&#8221; alt=”JourneyTowardsEpiphany” width=”125″ height=”125″ /></a>

Painting Imperfect Prose

If this is your first time here, let me explain what we are all about. We are a community started by Emily Wierenga. It was called Imperfect Prose. She is on a bit of a vacation as she has some extra responsibilities at the moment.

If you are new, please check out Emily’s blog. It is one of the most beautiful places on earth, and you need to be acquainted with the woman who made all of this happen!

Painting Prose. I can pick up a brush and change the atmosphere in a room. I simply dip my brush into a can of bisque paint and visitors will stop by and feel refreshed and notice something different, but never be able to put their finger on exactly what that “something” is. Or I can douse my roller in the pan with soft baby blue bringing comfort and peace. Because color can change they way we feel. And so do our words.

I want to baptize the brush of my life in red. That my words may be colored in His Blood and maybe with a little of mine too. Because that is where life is. In the blood. What doesn’t cost me at least a part of my life, doesn’t cost me much at all. And I want to give you more than I can afford. Regardless of the cost.

That our blood would intermingle; His and mine, until you cannot differentiate between the two; His Words and mine. For I can hope for nothing less than that out of the abundance of His heart I would allow my mouth to speak. Our blood, intermingled in His heart; His and mine.

And I no longer remember what it was that I wanted so badly yesterday. Because worldly desires have been pumped pure in His life-organ, purified, seven times by His Words. Until at last I have become a painter and my world is my canvas. I am Painting Imperfect Prose.

Join me in anticipation as dear Emily prepares to lead our community once again. She will be guest posting here next week, and then we will be returning back to her place after Easter.

<a href=”https://journeytoepiphany.wordpress.com&#8221; target=”_blank”><img src=”https://journeytoepiphany.files.wordpress.com/2012/02/pp-e1328715484812.jpg&#8221; alt=”JourneyTowardsEpiphany” width=”125″ height=”125″ /></a>

It’s Not Nice to be Mean – Guest Post Adela Crandell Durkee – Painting Prose

Adela’s Once A Little Girl was one of the first blogs I stumbled upon as I began my blogging habit. I’ve been hooked ever since! She’s made me laugh out loud on several occasions, and then in the middle of my laughter, she’s brought a catch in my voice with a point driven home.  Adela’s words are written with such nostalgia and her voice brings me back to so many sweet memories. She is also the first blogger I found who lived in the same metropolis as I do…and we’re even meeting up at a writer’s conference soon! Needless to say, I can’t wait to hug her neck. I’m sure you will enjoy writing as much as I have!

When I was a little girl it was important to be nice.  Captain Kangaroo told me the magic words:  “Abracadabra, Please and Thank you.”  If I forgot, Mom or Dad reminded me, “Now what are the magic words?”
When I was in Kindergarten, I had a bunch of teachers, one at a time, most of the names I forgot, but I remember Mrs. Brown.  She was mean.  My older sister, Deanna, had Mrs. Markley; she was just like a grandma, so nice.  For some reason Mrs. Markley was out of school when I got to Kindergarten, I never figured out why; I thought maybe she died, ’cause teachers lived in the school, so if she wasn’t there, she must have died.  But the next year, Mrs. Markley was back; all the rest of the kids in my family had Mrs. Markley. I wondered where she went the year I started school.
The new teacher, Mrs. Brown was not nice; she was mean. Mrs. Brown told me I had to drink white milk, no chocolate milk, even if that’s what Mom wrote down for me to order.   “We don’t need to bother Mr. Rex with all these special orders.”  Mrs. Brown told the class.  Mr Rex always smiled when he delivered the milk. He was in charge of the whole school, he had a chain hooked to his belt with keys to every door in the entire school,  and he was super-nice.  Mr. Rex was the janitor.

Mrs. Brown had big “bowls” that hung way down below her waist; when she bent over they brushed on the table, and she kept a wrinkly hankie tucked in her belt.  I think she used the same hankie all week.  Her face was all pinched and grumpy like her hair got pulled back in her bun too tight so she was starting to get a headache, and she smelled like cottage cheese and boiled eggs.  One day she passed out brown construction paper with a picture of a leaf on it.
“You can color your leaf any color you want, because fall leaves are colorful.”  she told us.  I colored mine yellow, like the hickory tree in the field behind my house; Mom put hickory nuts in the cookies she baked.  Dale colored his leaf green.  Mrs. Brown picked up Dale’s leaf and held it up for everyone to see.  I thought she was gonna tell us how beautiful it was, ’cause everything he did was the best; I loved Dale.
“Children.”  she said.  Mrs. Brown always called us ‘children’, I don’t think she knew our real names.
“Look at this leaf.”  she pulled her eyebrows down low and together, so they touched each other.  That was not a nice face to pull, I knew that.
“No Fall leaves are green.”  Now she was shouting and Dale looked like he wanted to cry, except he knew that big boys don’t cry, and he wanted everyone to know he was a big boy.  It’s okay for big girls to cry.  No one told me that, but I saw Mom cry lots of times, sometimes she even cried what she called happy tears, like when Dad gave her something nice on Mother’s Day when she thought he forgot,  and me and Bonita had already made her mad by picking lilacs and breaking some of the branches down, and she tried hard to act happy.  So I knew big girls cry for all kinds of reasons, but not big boys, they never cry.  If big boys feel like crying they just swallow hard, till the feeling goes away.  Dale was  swallowing  so hard pretty soon he was going to have a stomach ache.
I piped right up, ’cause I had a really good memory.  “You said we could color them any color we wanted.  Remember?”  I probably don’t need to tell you that my helping made things a whole lot worse.
That night after supper, I told Dad that Mrs. Brown was mean.  He sat me on his lap and listened to the whole story.  One really good thing about my Dad, he was a very good listener.  He listened to every bit:  about the milk, about the coloring the leaves,  about Dale swallowing hard, and about me reminding Mrs. Brown.  I left out the part about how I loved Dale, but he might have known anyway.  Sometimes he knew stuff, the way Mom did, although his powers were a bit weaker.
“Maybe she just had a bad day.’ he offered.
“If that was it, she has an awful lot of bad days.  Like every day.”  I looked up into his blue eyes; they were calm and clear, like her was figuring out an arithmetic problem in his head.
“Well, tomorrow, I want you to go right up to Mrs. Brown, put on your best smile and say, ‘Good morning, Mrs. Brown.  How are you today?’  I bet that will get her day off to a good start, and things will go a whole lot better.”  I must have looked doubtful, ’cause then he said, “You’ve got the best smile I ever saw.  That smile will charm the socks right off Mrs. Brown.”
I still had my doubts, and I wasn’t that interested in seeing Mrs. Brown’s feet, but the idea of her socks flying off was pretty funny, so I started to laugh. Besides that, Dad knew a lot, like how to tell arrowheads from rocks and how to tie a hook on a fishing line, so I trusted him.  The next day, I marched right up to Mrs. Brown, and said just like Dad told me:  “Good morning Mrs. Brown.  How are you today?”
She smiled right down at me and said.  “Now, don’t dawdle, go hang your coat up.”  I was thinking about saying “Abracadabra, please and thank you.”  but I wanted that smile to stay right where it was, so I stayed quiet.
A couple of weeks later, Mrs. Brown was gone, and we had a new teacher, who must have been nice, because I would have remembered another mean one.  I found out years later, that the principal asked Mrs. Brown to “step down’ and she did.  I heard she suffered from depression, which in those days, went undiagnosed for most people.  I’m glad that Dad gave me the advice he did; I got to feel like I had a little control, while the parents worked things out behind the scene.    Of course I’m not always nice;  it’s good to know I have a (w)itch  in my tool belt when I really need her,  but I prefer to be nice.  I feel a lot better about myself and I end up feeling better about whatever meanie I come up against.  And I try to keep in mind, that the meanie might be dealing with problems that are far beyond my comprehension. Besides, smiling is infectious, and I love smiling.

Drop a note in the comment section to let Adela know how much you enjoyed hearing about her childhood.

If this is your first time here, let me explain what we are all about. We are a community started by Emily Wierenga. It was called Imperfect Prose. She is on a bit of a vacation as she has some extra responsibilities at the moment.

If you are new, please check out Emily’s blog. It is one of the most beautiful places on earth, and you need to be acquainted with the woman who made all of this happen!

<a href=”https://journeytoepiphany.wordpress.com&#8221; target=”_blank”><img src=”https://journeytoepiphany.files.wordpress.com/2012/02/pp-e1328715484812.jpg&#8221; alt=”JourneyTowardsEpiphany” width=”125″ height=”125″ /></a>

New Beginnings – Painting Prose

Soft breezes play music with the neighbor’s wind chimes. And I am in awe; surprised at how winter’s oppression can be heavy one day and amazed at the hope that comes with even one spring day. It wipes dismay away like a windshield wiper on a misty morning.

I am almost giddy with the newness of everything. I notice it in the voices on the other end of the telephone…the sound of smiles so big that they hurt cheeks.

And I ask myself, “Why do I let this joy slip away? This joy unspeakable and full of glory?” The very One who reminds me of New Life in green grass, robin eggs, and baby bunnies is the same, yesterday, today and forever. He remains constant in a world that changes so quickly that my newest gadget is obsolete before my milk goes sour.

He is there in the dead silence of winter. He is there in the blaze of fall. And yet it is spring that makes me want to twirl in a new summer dress like I did when I was a five year old girl, patent leather shoes and all. It’s just so easy to see Him right about now.

He peels back the green on the budding flowers. He unfolds leaves with careful attention. He shows us that there is life after death, if we just trust Him through the winter.

Where do you see Him, in the beauty of spring?

If this is your first time here, let me explain what we are all about. We are a community started by Emily Wierenga. It was called Imperfect Prose. She is on a bit of a vacation as she has some extra responsibilities at the moment.

If you are new, please check out Emily’s blog. It is one of the most beautiful places on earth, and you need to be acquainted with the woman who made all of this happen!

<a href=”https://journeytoepiphany.wordpress.com&#8221; target=”_blank”><img src=”https://journeytoepiphany.files.wordpress.com/2012/02/pp-e1328715484812.jpg&#8221; alt=”JourneyTowardsEpiphany” width=”125″ height=”125″ /></a>

When Fear Postpones the Birth of Dreams – Guest Post by Shelly Miller – Painting Prose

What more can I say other than that I adore Shelly’s writing? I am thrilled beyond words to hear her mention the four-letter b word, “book”, and can not wait until she shares her thoughts with the world. Her prose is full of images both visual and experiential. In this piece, I see daffodils waving in the wind, and I feel the heartache of letting a child mature…and as usual, she stirs my emotions with her poetry in prose. Please accept my invitation to visit her beautiful blog…Redemption’s Beauty.

Daffodils stand at attention in perfect rows, their yellow faces saluting the sun. Branches sway windy, waving pink fairy dust as I breathe the beauty of what blurs past my windshield. New life pops confetti on bare branches and today, I let go of my daughter’s hand. Watch her dance the last stanzas of childhood in this circle of life we share.
She turns sixteen today. A day she begins to collect her own packet of seeds to scatter. (Mark 4)
Because aren’t we all farmers of what he gives?
Yesterday I squeezed her dimpled knuckles. Today, wearing wet hair and tall boots, she drives away in her white Volvo with cardboard owl swinging from the mirror, pop music vibrating.
Later, in the quiet empty, I wipe off the syrup pitcher, put her dirty dishes in the sink, notice the pile of cards holding checks from friends stacked neatly beside her place at the bar. Pieces of hope paper stacked for the promise of a mission trip to Jamaica.
Sixteen years ago, H caught me standing in the closet sobbing silent tears over my pregnant stomach. Fear puddled out in knowing what my mind could not comprehend. That this life inside would change me, change us forever. I didn’t know how to master cultivating a successful life.
Who can master a life He gives with a story already written?
A book of invisible pages revealed to the muse in whispers by the author, at the turn of each day.

Last night, I crawl into bed next to my husband, sigh deep and he asks me what I am thinking.
I share my brick on the chest feeling over the birth of this book-writing journey. How words stumble when someone asks me why I haven’t started the book yet. Because I don’t know how to conquer this petrifying perfectionism that needs to know the outcome before I start something new.
Sixteen years later, I am pregnant once again, gasping for breath and knowing I won’t know the outcome about this either. The fear of failure postpones birth.
When He gave me my own packet of seeds all those years ago, they came with simple instructions. Just plant, water and weed. The outcome, well that is His job.
I cannot see all of the beautiful blooms yet on the life that is my daughter; what color they will be, how tall they will grow, how long they will remain on the vine. I cannot linger over the engraved letters on the spine of the book penned in my name, know how many hands will hold it, or how it will transform a life.
But I will continue to do my part: plant, water and weed.
I will wait on Him for the outcome.

But those that were sown on the good soil are the ones who hear the word and accept it and bear fruit, thirtyfold and sixtyfold and a hundredfold. Mark 4:20 ESV
Are you stuck because of fear of the failure? Has it kept you from birthing a dream?

Please take the time to comment and let Shelly know how much this piece blessed you!

If this is your first time here, let me explain what we are all about. We are a community started by Emily Wierenga. It was called Imperfect Prose. She is on a bit of a vacation as she has some extra responsibilities at the moment.

If you are new, please check out Emily’s blog. It is one of the most beautiful places on earth, and you need to be acquainted with the woman who made all of this happen!

<a href="https://journeytoepiphany.wordpress.com&#034; target="_blank"><img src="https://journeytoepiphany.files.wordpress.com/2012/02/pp-e1328715484812.jpg&#034; alt="JourneyTowardsEpiphany" width="125" height="125" /></a>

Unrejected – Guest Post by Jen Ferguson – Painting Prose

Jen Ferguson has become a real live friend…our friendship has gone so beyond “virtual”. She is one of the sweetest kindest women that I know. Her writing always makes me want to know two people better; her, of course and Jesus. The relationship she has with Him is tangible, and she makes me hungry to pursue Him more…and that is the greatest gift I could find in a relationship.

Jen has a wonderful and caring community called Soli Deo Gloria. They meet on Tuesdays over at her place, Finding Heaven. It is the first linkup community I ever participated in, and I had no idea what I was doing, Jen walked me through. Please make sure to visit her place, you will so much be the better for it.

Sunday was the marathon and on Tuesday, I got an email from the race organizers that the race photos were up. And so I clicked on the link…

As I perused the pictures, I focused not on the fact that countenance of my face revealed that although most of the miles proved hard, they were not impossible. I focused not on the fact that there were thousands of people running and thousands of people cheering. I focused not on the fact that the victory picture of me crossing the finish line showed that I not only finished, but I finished strong.

I focused on none of this. Instead, I had a breakdown about the size and shape of my thighs. Yes, those same legs that carried me through 26.2 miles, I now looked upon with disdain.

Not good enough.
No matter how hard I try…
Why in the world would I buy the pictures that show nothing of my hard work?

This is not the first time that instead of being grateful, I have become a babbling torrent of negativity. Instead of being thankful that my husband has a job, I complain that he has to work late. Instead of being grateful that I’ve sold eight pieces of art, I grumble that business doesn’t seem as busy as it used to be. Instead of building myself up with the truth of God’s word, I let the self-inflicted, injurious barbs shred my perspective, and ultimately, my heart.

With many things, I have been satisfied only when a certain level of perfection is met.  If it is imperfect, even mildly, such as a stray line on a drawing, improper grammar in a belabored sentence, dust in a deep crevice, I have difficulty finding joy in the finished work.  I am compelled to erase, rework, dig deeper, train harder, even if I have been mildly rebuked to simply let it go.

God has been working in me to find the beauty and joy in these imperfections, though.  He teaches me, slowly but surely, how to move on after He has forgiven me of my sin.  He teaches me that the blue painted mug with a few errant strokes of paint that I created still has the capacity to hold my hot tea and that the blemishes hold no baring on its purpose. 

Can He teach me the same about my imperfect body?  My legs have parts that are too fleshy.  They like to store fat in places I really wish they would not.  Cellulite, yes, they have allowed it to reside in that place just below the skin, and right on the front of my thighs for everyone else to see.  The beginnings of spider veins begin to spread their tentacles over my muscular calves.  They do their job, they go above the call, but is this enough for me?

When I search my heart, looking for God’s perspective and not society’s, not my own, I come to this conclusion: Although they are far from perfect, I cannot reject them. 

And this gives me hope. If I, of all people, can learn to love something like my cellulite-ridden legs, God can love me despite my own character flaws.  Because although I am far from perfect, He has promised not to reject me.  He does not stand by and scoff at my short-comings, but rather He fills me with His grace and makes perfect my weakness.  He knows that I am surrendered to Him, that my allegiance is with Him alone.  He knows I have been tried.  I have been tested.  I am fighting the good fight and together, we will win the race.

Isn’t she wonderful? Please take the time to comment and let her know how much this piece blessed you!

If this is your first time here, let me explain what we are all about. We are a community started by Emily Wierenga. It was called Imperfect Prose. She is on a bit of a vacation as she has some extra responsibilities at the moment.

If you are new, please check out Emily’s blog. It is one of the most beautiful places on earth, and you need to be acquainted with the woman who made all of this happen!

<a href="https://journeytoepiphany.wordpress.com&#034; target="_blank"><img src="https://journeytoepiphany.files.wordpress.com/2012/02/pp-e1328715484812.jpg&#034; alt="JourneyTowardsEpiphany" width="125" height="125" /></a>

Apparently, I Have A New Occupation! – Painting Prose Community

Many of you commented on how beautiful my button is!  I love it, don’t you?  My art student son made it for me…but there is a funny story.

It was rather late, and he had way too many things to do.  To be honest with you, I probably had no business asking him to do it for me.  But I did…and when I told him the name, he looked at me funny.

“Why are calling it that?”  he said.

“Because the lady I’m doing it for is a painter, and it’s kind of a play on words,” I answered.

He shrugged.  The next morning I had an e-mail from him.  It had an attachment with a button much like this one, except that it said, “Painting Pros”.  Suddenly, I understood the quizzical look on his face the previous day!

 

If this is your first time here, let me explain what we are all about.  We are a community started by Emily Wierenga.  Her meme was called Imperfect Prose. She is on a bit of a meme vacation as she has some extra responsibilities at the moment.  If you have a piece of writing that you would like to share here, please link up with us, include the button with your blog post, and visit other community members in order to spread some love and encouragement.

If you are new, please check out Emily’s blog.  It is one of the most beautiful places on earth, and you need to be acquainted with the woman who made all of this happen!

 

<a href="https://journeytoepiphany.wordpress.com&#034; target="_blank"><img src="https://journeytoepiphany.files.wordpress.com/2012/02/pp-e1328715484812.jpg&#034; alt="JourneyTowardsEpiphany" width="125" height="125" /></a>