by Bookworm Mama | May 11, 2018 | Fridays from the Archives
Every year, this time rolls around again. When finalists are announced in a slew of different awards. And every year, I think back to this post I wrote 6 years ago. I decided it would be a fine one to repost this Friday.
Because though in some ways it seems pretty much everything has changed since 2012, in other ways, nothing has at all. This road of publication–this road of life, really, where we strive so hard for a goal–is never the straight shot we think it should be. God leads us where He needs us to go to grow closer to Him.
And usually, that’s a pretty twisty path…
Original post published 4/19/2012
Last night the semi-finalists of the Genesis Contest (for unpublished authors) were announced. On Monday, the nominees for the Christy (Christian Fiction’s most prestigious award) went public. And as award season gets into full swing, I imagine we’ll see many more lists of potential winners and the results themselves.
I know quite a few of my readers are writers, so I wanted to talk about this today. And if you’re not a writer, you’ve presumably been in competition over something at some point or another, so it should still be relevant for you. 😉
I’ve been blessed with the fulfillment of my dream–I get to write for a living. I’m certainly not bringing in enough to support a family right now, but as a part-time job for a stay at home mom who’s homeschooling, it’s a pretty sweet deal. 😀 So I have what I’d deem success–success defined as doing what I love. And hey, even getting paid for it! LOL
But I’ve never in my life won a writing contest. Never. Never even finaled in one. Even back in the day of short story contests against other middle schoolers, the best I ever did was Honorable Mention. Yet it was my thing. And I was the unquestioned Best at everything in school; valedictorian, first chair clarinetist, drum major . . . and I knew I was a good writer. I knew it, and my teachers all made a point of telling me so.
And yet . . .
A couple years ago I entered the Genesis contest. It was the only unpublished contest I’d ever entered (or have ever), and I entered with very high hopes. They didn’t publicize semi-finalists that year, just finalists, and I saw all the emails from my friends who finaled appear on my historical list when they got their “Call”. I sat there, with the phone by my computer. I hoped, and I prayed, and I told myself it was okay, no matter what. That it didn’t determine anything about who I was.
Then when the list went up (absent my name), I went outside and let myself cry for five minutes.
I wanted there to be some reason to it. So when my agent, a week later, submitted the book I’d entered to an editor who really liked it, I got hopeful. See, we couldn’t have submitted it if it had still been in the contest. But that would have been perfect poetic justice! I could see myself now, winning the published contest instead of the unpublished, going up to make my speech . . .
The book was too like another the line had already contracted, so the editor passed.
I never had another chance at Genesis, because
A Stray Drop of Blood came out, and
Jewel of Persia after that. Right around then I emailed that editor who liked that book I’d entered, to follow up with a question I’d asked a while before, and she said, “Have you checked in with our other editor? She has
Annapolis penciled in.”
Whhhhh….aaaaaa…..ttttt?
Did that Genesis-rejected submission bear fruit after all, by winning over another editor at this house, one who could champion me as a writer when Editor 2 brought Annapolis to the committee? Maybe . . . maybe . . . who knows? But what I can tell you is that Annapolis was published soon after that.
Of course, now I’m in the realm of published contests. I now know nothing of mine that came out in 2011 was nominated for a Christy, which was no big surprise (though it would have been nice!). There are only two other contests I’d entered, and we’ll see how those go. Am I hopeful? Well yes, a bit.
But you know what? I’m also finally getting to the point where I just don’t care about wins. In part because I learned that one of my all-time favorite authors, Francine Rivers, will not enter a contest and requests her publishers not enter any on her behalf. She’d walked that road while in the ABA and refused to walk it again when she moved to CBA. And I really admire that.
I haven’t gotten any clear direction to avoid contests, and having an “award-winning” before my name would certainly be nice (although I’d be just as happy–even happier!–with “best-selling” LOL), but as I look back on this stuff this week, I have to wonder if I ever will win. Not because of what I write, but because of who I am. Because I’m a competitive person, and staying humble is something I have to focus on to achieve. Because God knows way better than I how I might handle a big win . . . and maybe He doesn’t want that for me.
Is this a lesson in humility for me? Could be, wouldn’t be surprised. But more, there’s a lesson for me about focus and determination. My goal cannot be to write a book that wins awards–it must be to write a book that wins hearts. My determination must be to keep on the path I’ve been set upon no matter how many twists of disappointment, not to keep walking only when flower petals are showering down upon me.
When I was in high school, my cross-country coach had a saying: “If it were easy, everybody would be doing it.”
Mr. Brown’s wisdom can apply to pretty much anything worth working at, can’t it? It isn’t easy, this thing you’ve been called to do. It has its moments of triumph when you finally cross that finish line, but it also has a lot of moments along the way when you step in a dip and twist your ankle, when a stray tree branch smacks you in the arm, when you can’t seem to draw in enough air to keep those sides from stitching.
No, it isn’t easy. But something else Mr. Brown passed along that will always stick with me is that verse that perfectly sums up both my writing story and this running analogy–we have an Author. We have a Finisher, a Perfecter–and it isn’t us, you know. I might write a book, but I don’t write my own story.
That’s for Him.
I might enter a few contests, but I don’t determine where I finish.
That’s for Him.
And I don’t look at those awards as any kind of goal to reach, not anymore.
That’s for Him.
But I don’t give up. I will run with endurance. And just like with cross country (at which I was never any good, let it be noted, LOL), those races won’t be about winning. They’ll be about growing.
Let us run with endurance this race that is set before us; looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith.
Hebrews 12:1
If you entered the Genesis and indulged in a few moments of tears last night, chin up. And look at me–I didn’t final and was published before quite a few folks who did. And if you did end up on that semi-finalist list, big congratulations! I have friends whose publishing doors were opened by that.
Just know that, no matter where you end up this contest season, your story is your own, between you and God. Win or lose, He knows how to get you where you’re going. And He knows what you need–and what you don’t–along the way.
by Roseanna White | Mar 23, 2018 | Fridays from the Archives
A week or so ago, the Memories section on Facebook brought up this post. I don’t often read my own blog posts when they come up like this, but I clicked on this one, and I’m glad I did. Those thoughts that struck me then still resonate today.
Last week we wrapped up the Bible study we’d been doing on Sacred Parenting–and the last session was on how parenting is all about sacrificial love, which teaches us what it is. A crucial step in the Christian faith, which is built on sacrifice. It was a great study, and in our discussion afterwards, we touched on a lot of great aspects of the subject.
But what really struck me the most is the idea that our idea of sacrifice changes over time. The author of the book used the example of seeing a tired dad walking through the mall with his small daughter, who said, “Will you carry me, Daddy? My legs are tired.” He could tell the dad was tired too, but sighed and picked up his little girl. Gary (the author) found himself longing for those days–his youngest was 12. That time of his life was over, and though it was exhausting at the time, he missed it.
How true is that, so often?
It made me think of when my babies were still babies. Rowyn especially would wake up every night. I’m talking, for four years. Every night, at some point or another, he would cry. Every night, I would have to tromp, exhausted, down those stairs to his room. I’d scoop him up. I’d ease down into the old, creaking rocking chair. He’d cuddle in. I’d close my eyes.
There were nights I was so tired that I fell asleep sitting up in that old wooden rocker (not the soft, plush kind with cushions, mind you–the wooden kind). There were nights when I cried along with him because I just needed sleep, and he wouldn’t grant me that. There were nights when I seriously wondered if this kid would ever sleep through the night.
But now I think back on how many times God met me there in the hushed bedroom of my little boy, in the soft shadows of night. I remember how many times I crawled up into the lap of God, just as Rowyn crawled up into mine. I remember how many times I held him, praying him back to sleep…and then, after I saw his eyelids were firmly closed, I held him just a little longer–because I wasn’t ready yet to put him back down, even though that was what my goal had been.
And I realize that those things that were a sacrifice–of our time, our energy, our very sanity–became a blessing. It wasn’t that a blessing came from them, though certainly, that happens sometimes. But it’s the thing itself, that action, that act of sacrificing, that we miss when the season has passed by. We miss the time spent giving to another. We miss the act of giving of ourselves.
It doesn’t stop the next sacrifice from hurting. It’s
supposed to hurt, to cost us something. That’s why it’s a sacrifice. It grows us, it stretches us, it makes us ache with it. But it’s
necessary. Because
without sacrifice, what is our faith? If we don’t give to others, why did Jesus give up everything for us?
There are times when I really, really don’t feel up to fulfilling that obligation I agreed to. There are times when I really, really don’t want to pause my work to make another cheese sandwich. There are times when I really, really don’t think I have the strength to give up one more thing.
There are times when I don’t want to sing to the Lord. When I don’t want to worship. When I don’t want to praise. Because it hurts.
That’s when we bring the sacrifice of praise. Of money. Of time. Of energy.
And God meets us there. He takes our sacrifices, and He returns them to us filled up with love. So that, looking back, we realize that our obligation became the thing we looked forward to. That we love cooking for our families. That we had just as much
without that money as we would have had with it. That through praising God, the empty places inside were filled up.
The sacrifices didn’t just yield blessings. They are blessings.
What are you sacrificing today? For me, it’s time. And I’m going to stop right now and praise Him for asking it of me. Knowing that the sacrifice is sweet.
by Roseanna White | Nov 10, 2017 | Fridays from the Archives
Time for another Fridays from the Archives! Today we’re looking back to January 2010, when Xoe was only 4, and Rowyn only 2. I actually went looking for this one, because it’s something I think of from time to time. I in fact recently regaled Xoe with the tale of how she refused to put matching mittens beside each other, and she thought it was utterly hilarious.
And though now she’s a bit more fashion conscious and will play by the rules, that creative streak is still definitely present–and still such fun to see!
I know, I know. You look at the title to this post and think I’m going
to talk about my kids’ propensity to lose one of each and every set of
mittens in the house. And they do, I assure you. But that’s actually not
my point at all. =)
On Tuesdays I take Xoe to Story Time at our Library, which she loves.
It’s the usual setup–the librarian reads to them, they sing some songs,
there’s a craft or snack. The past few weeks, one of the songs has made
use of the felt-board and cutout paper mittens in different colors.
When the song calls out the color of then mitten you have, you run up
and put it on the board. Simple, right?
I’ve noticed something these last few weeks. Whenever Miss Liz says,
“Put them here” and pats the board, every other child–I’m talking every
. . . single . . . one–puts their colored mitten where she points. The
first to get there will put it by the edge, the second (there are two
of each color, go figure) right beside it.
Except Xoe.
Naturally, my little princess must be different. On Tuesday, she put her
white mitten right in the middle of the board, though the first child
to get there with with white put it by the edge, under the red ones,
just like the librarian indicated.
I watched carefully when it was her turn again. By the time yellow was
called, the board was mostly full. Again, another kid got there with
yellow before her. Again, started a nice, neat row.
Where, I wondered, would my little deviant put this one? There wasn’t
much room left, other than beside its match. Would she conform?
Er, no. She put it in the spot still open beside the first white one, which was all lonely because her white one was off by itself.
I nearly laughed. There it was, this lovely rainbow of mittens,
surprisingly well ordered by a bunch of three-year-olds, and the only
oddities in the pattern were those two mittens my daughter put up, one
white, one yellow. Two bright, cheerful slaps in the face of conformity.
Now, as a mother of a preschooler, there are a lot of moments when I think, “Can’t you just do what you’re told? Please?
Must you make waves? Must you do things your own way? Don’t you see
that your outfit looks ridiculous, that you’ve made your ‘art’ over top
of an actual picture, that you’ve undone all my cleaning by creating
this ‘obstacle course’ of toys?” Especially in public. Especially around
other mothers with their well-behaved children who come to the Library
appropriately dressed.
But you know . . . on Tuesday, something in me cheered. Something said,
“Yeah, go Xoe! Make a new pattern! Color outside the lines! Wear red and
black Minnie Mouse shoes with a pink and yellow kitty-cat dress! Be you!”
Now, I would like to note that my daughter is darn good for a 4-year-old. She can color inside the lines, follow precise directions, and pick out a pattern. She can clean up her toys, pick out presentable clothes, and charm the socks off any adult she comes across.
But she can also create. She can go around for a full day, narrating a
story in her mind that incorporates everything she’s actually doing. She
can turn a boring tan rubber band into an intricate bracelet.
She can turn a paper mitten into a bright spot. And this mommy, who sometimes just wishes she would listen, couldn’t be more proud.
by Roseanna White | Oct 27, 2017 | Fridays from the Archives
Given that it’s once again pumpkin-carving weekend upon us, I thought that today I’d re-post something from almost exactly six years ago . . . when I got a rather unpleasant surprise during my carving. Which, of course, led me to some thoughts on life and faith.
This year on Xoe’s birthday, we went down to the family farm’s pumpkin patch to select our pumpkins–we got orange ones in tall and then round, white ones with a ghosting of green and orange, and warty ones too. What kind of pumpkin is your favorite?
My kids love this time of year. We have Octoberfest at our family’s farm (not in the German tradition, mind you), the best family reunion ever, my daughter’s birthday, Halloween . . . as soon as pumpkins start appearing in the stores and on the stoops, the questions begin: “When are we getting a pumpkin? Can we carve it? What kind of face should I make this year?”
Now, belonging to a farm family, I do not buy a pumpkin, certainly not from a store. I instead pick out some from the selection my grandparents bring for the kids to the above-mentioned reunion [or venture down into the fields to choose my own]. So this year Rowyn chose a nice, round one, and Xoe one with a beautiful squiggly stem. We set them on the porch way back the week of Columbus Day.
And waited. My thought: if we carve them later, they may actually last through Halloween, and the kids are disappointed when they don’t.
So on Tuesday night, we deemed it a great day to carve pumpkins. The weather was warm, we had nowhere to go . . . perfect. So the kids went out with our dry-erase markers, I with my carving knife and a few plastic bags for glop. While Xoe drew a happy face on hers and Rowyn made a few scribbles and then decided that fallen tree branch in the yard was far more interesting, I got down to business on Rowyn’s pumpkin. I cut my circle in the top, pulled it up.
And went, “Ewwwwwwwwwwww!”
It was rotten inside. You know how there are supposed to be strings? Seeds? We had only mush. Orangish-brown, sloppy, stinky mush. It was seriously one of the grosses moments of my life. But my exclamation had brought the boy-o back over, and looking down into his dimpled face, those big eyes . . . yeah, I didn’t have the heart to say, “Sorry, kiddo, no pumpkin for you this year.”
I scooped out the foul-smelling goo. Poured it where I could. Held my breath and got rid of the rotten. I hosed it out. I bagged and double-bagged the glop and got rid of it. Then I went to work cutting away any yucky meat from inside.
At which point I noticed the soft spots. The weak spots. The spots I would have noticed from the outside had I looked for them. It hadn’t occurred to me to do so, I just assumed the pumpkin was fine–but had I bothered, I would have seen the signs. I could have gotten another pumpkin beforehand. I could have spared myself some disgust, lol.
Oh-so-often I do the same thing with life. I push forward, not even considering caution. Or I ignore that soft spot I detect. It’s the little things, the little warnings. Like yesterday when I handed Xoe a bowl of Spaghetti-Os and thought, “She’s going to spill that.” But handed it to her anyway. Thirty seconds later . . . . Or that time I looked at the bananas on the counter and thought, “I should move those so the dog doesn’t get them.” But the dog had never shown any interest in bananas, nor had he gotten anything off the counter. Yet when we got home that afternoon . . .
The Lord tries to show us those soft spots in life’s pumpkin. He gives us the Spirit to whisper the warnings in our ear. “You had better be careful here, beloved . . . better open you eyes . . . better listen, and spare yourself some discomfort.” After years and years of observing this, it’s still a task to listen to that voice. To take it seriously. To trust it.
I’m in a place right now where I can see how the Lord has led me lovingly to some of the big things happening in my life. But how awesome is it that He leads us in the little things too, if we pay attention?
Thank you, Lord for having a soft spot in Your heart for humanity, so that you can show us the soft spots in us.
For where it makes us weak, it makes You strong.
by Roseanna White | Oct 6, 2017 | Fridays from the Archives
Today we’re going back a mere 3 years, to when my family had just returned from a vacation to the lower Outer Banks of North Carolina. This is a reflection that comes back to me each and every time we vacation and go out scouring for shells. Especially since, even as the kids age, their definition of “beautiful” is still so much wider than my own. Hope you enjoy their outlook as much as I do!
Last week, my family had the Joy of vacationing in Hatteras, on the southern tip of the Outer Banks of North Carolina, as far south as one can go before needing a ferry to continue. We basked in the sun. We played in the waves. We relaxed.
And we collected seashells.
The kids had been looking forward to that part for weeks. When family asked them what they wanted to do on vacation, their answers were: (1) play mini-golf, (2) get Sweet Frog frozen yogurt, and (3) collect seashells.
One small catch–the beach by our house had virtually no shells. For the first few days, they collected about 5. And at least two of those came from the strip of rocks and shells beside our condo rather than the beach, LOL. On Wednesday night, a few had washed to shore, and as we were out hunting ghost crabs, the kids grabbed up all the shells they could find. Very few were what I would deem keepable, but they were the only ones we’d seen, so…
Then on Thursday, we got an off-road driving permit and took the Jeep out onto Buxton point, behind the Hatteras lighthouse. This sandy peninsula was populated by other 4x4s, surrounded by blue-green water…and littered with big, beautiful shells. Eureka!
Now, I’ve been collecting shells for a lot of years…but always had limited space for bringing them home. So I had to come up with criteria for what I kept and what I left. For me it usually comes down to color and shape. I’m a sucker for pinks and purples. And for whole, unbroken shells. I like the kinds that have swirling patterns. And the ultimate find, of course, is a whelk.
My kids though…they would pick up the ugliest, weirdest looking things! Ones I would have tossed back in a heartbeat they clung to with fierce determination.
The broken ones. (But Mommy, look at the cool pattern it makes along the break!)
The common ones. (I can use it as a shovel!)
The ugly ones. (But look, it has fossils in it!)
The ones just like the other twenty they already kept. (Oh cool, now it’s a collection!)
At first I tried to reason with them, to impose my logic. (Ha! LOL) And on some, we had no disagreement, like the perfect little whelk we found on Friday, our second day at the point. Or the ones with holes that Xoe can turn into necklaces.
But those others…
As I walked the sand, as I kept my eye out for what I deemed the perfect shell, I stopped arguing with the kids. Let them pick whatever they wanted right then–but we’d have to sort through them before we left. No way could we take all those buckets- and bags-full home! There wasn’t room in our Jeep.
And yet, as I walked the sand, I knew I wouldn’t have the heart to take away the shells they loved, just because I didn’t see the beauty in them. In fact, the more I saw the mangled shells they chose, the more I loved those kids.
Because they see beauty where I saw scars.
They see purpose where I see brokenness.
They see what it looked like whole where I see the jagged edge left behind.
They see potential where I see hopelessness.
They marvel at the size where I screw up my nose at the color.
They are so, so much closer to looking at things through God’s eyes than I am.
Because let’s face it–we’re not the pretty, perfect seashells. We’re the broken ones. The scarred ones. The mangled ones. The shattered ones. The ugly ones. We’re the ones discerning eyes would pass over. We’re the ones perfection has long ago left behind.
And God loves us. Not despite our flaws, but because each crack, each track of worm-eating, each place where the sand has rubbed us raw…those are part of us. Part of what makes us who we are. Part of what God loves. He can see the whole, unbroken creation we are in potential…but he can also see the way he can use us in our brokenness. Because of our brokenness.
Yes, we came home with buckets and bags of seashells. And to be honest, I still shake my head at some of them.
But I’m glad. I’m so glad my kids picked up the ones I never would have. Because it proves that their eyes, their hearts, their imaginations go far beyond what I can see. And I thank the Lord that he’s given them a bit of his vision. Because if they can find the beauty in this…
…then I know they also see the beauty in us. Just like our Father.
by Roseanna White | Aug 11, 2017 | Fridays from the Archives
Today we’re glancing back in time a mere four years…and yet far more. Four years ago, you see, I was reminiscing about a day when I was maybe 10 or 11. One of those golden summer afternoons in the sanctuary of my church…where I had a run in with faith. And a fly.
I was a kid. I don’t even remember how old, probably about ten. My parents were in charge of the youth at our church, which meant I spent a lot of time there. My favorite thing to do? Slip into the quiet sanctuary and just be there. With no milling congregation, no dozens of conversations, no laughter, no music, no mothers calling for the little ones to come to their pew.
Just me. And that certain feeling that this was holy ground.
I grew up in church, I said my prayer for salvation along with the other kids in a children’s church service was I was, oh, five or six. And I meant it. Sure, it took me a lot of years to figure out what it was I had meant, ha ha, but there was never doubt. There was never turning away. There was never backsliding.
There were, instead, these quiet little moments when I brushed up against the divine and realized how much He loved me, in all the wackiest little things.
On this day, I’d meandered to the front of the sanctuary, where the much-disputed red velvet curtain hung on the back wall, a subject of heated debate among the board. My parents were also on the board, so I was aware of this debate. I found it so trivial that I just laughed over it. Take the curtain down, leave it up, what did it matter? Adults, I thought, got hung up on the weirdest things.
Me, I thought about more important things, ahem. Like the next story I would write, whether my mom would let me have Brittney over that weekend, and if my teacher would rearrange our desks soon because I was so tired of sitting beside those stupid boys who thought it was funny to mock everything everyone said. I made it a point never to laugh at them. Eventually they noticed and asked why. My answer? “Because you’re not funny.” Oh yes, brutal honesty from the tweener Roseanna, LOL.
The church was washed with the golden light of a summer evening. Kinda stuffy, as the air was turned off, but not too bad. It was only Sunday night, after all, it hadn’t had a chance to get really hot yet. I meandered to the front of the sanctuary, past the alter railings. Maybe I’d intended to go to the piano, who knew—I was known to trill out Für Elise any time I could.
But a buzzing of a fly disturbed my quiet. Have you ever noticed how loud one little fly sounds in a room with no other noise? So annoying. So there. And my first instinct, when it comes to a fly, is to swat at it.
That afternoon, though, I had a thought of, “No, I’m not going to kill a fly in church.” (Let it be noted I’ve never felt that particular conviction since, LOL.) Instead, I watched it buzz around the vaulted ceilings and land, eventually, on the alter table
I remember creeping closer, wondering how close I could get before it saw my movement and took off. One step nearer, two. At some point, I recall a strange series of thoughts running through my head. Something that mixed wonder with prayer. Something that made me stretch out in faith. Something that wasn’t exactly Peter walking on water, but which was stepping out nonetheless. I determined that God would hold the fly still, and I could touch it. Pet it. Stroke its wing.
And so I walked up to the table. I reached out. And I stroked its wing.
It’s a small thing. A simple thing. A silly thing. And yet as greater struggles of faith arise in my life, I sometimes think back on that fly. On a child who acted on faith, and who proved that her God heard the smallest, silliest thoughts in her head. And who didn’t mind touching His finger to a pesky little fly so that she could touch hers to it too.
Life is full of flies as well as hurricanes. Bumps as well as canyons. And oh, how nice it is to know that the God who cares about the one also cares about the other. That no matter my words, He listens.
Thank you, Lord.
Roseanna M. White is a bestselling, Christy Award winning author who has long claimed that words are the air she breathes. When not writing fiction, she’s homeschooling her two kids, editing, designing book covers, and pretending her house will clean itself. Roseanna is the author of a slew of historical novels that span several continents and thousands of years. Spies and war and mayhem always seem to find their way into her books…to offset her real life, which is blessedly ordinary.