Guest Writer

Fact, Fiction, and a D-I-Y Life

by Jane Rubietta

My husband stood beside me, our fingers clutching the frozen fencing. The unexpected ice storm shut down many roads in Tennessee, but we slid up to this gateway to my grandparents’ farm. Though the acreage sold 20 years prior, I hadn’t returned. My husband creaked open the unlocked gate and, in our station wagon with three small kids, we inched along the icy lane to the old farmhouse.

 Smaller than my memories, and decrepit in its presentation, still, the house contained poignant history. We peeked through the windows to peeling wallpaper and sagging ceilings. I grieved the loss of place, the lack of love and respect for such an antique beauty.

A decade slipped past. This time I steered a rental while on a Tennessee book tour. An internal map guided me straight to the farm, this time without a gate—or ice and snow. Cotton fluffs dotted the dark soil, reminiscent of last year’s harvest. I crept over in my dress clothes and heels to collect a few wisps.

Then I noticed. The sycamores lining the lane…gone. Fields rolled straight to the gravel’s edge. But surely soon I’d see the barn and tractor shed and the old gas pump. And the house.

Except, no. In their places, dirt and more dirt. I crawled from the car again, rooted at the edge of the house’s memorial site. So many stories, collapsed with the walls, the memories of hope and laughter, hardship and hard work. The scents of buttermilk biscuits and the smoke house with the best cured ham and bacon anywhere in the country.  

That day, a novel began to stir. About a woman who, wounded by her family, evacuates her past, and creates her own Do-It-Yourself life far from the fertile fields and painful memories. 

When everything she’s built threatens to collapse, Evelyn Lewis returns to liquidate her inherited farm. If only it were that easy. That’s no fun. Under the roasting southern sun, Evie realizes she must excavate her past in order to build her future. 

Is it biographical? No. But geographical, you bet. Though the farmhouse is larger in the novel than in real life, and waits in dire need of a kind hand when Evie reaches the cattle guard before the short driveway. 

The Forgotten Life of Evelyn Lewis is filled with laughter, sweet tea, healing, hope, lots of hammers, reclamation, and the surprising gift of friendship. 

No one, perhaps, is more surprised than me (well, except my family) that from so many fingers-clutching-fences places, I’ve become an author and speaker. Twenty of my books are non-fiction; with Evie, I wanted to experiment with real people working through the very real issues I write about. While it was a finalist for a couple of national book awards, the real blessing, to me, about The Forgotten Life of Evelyn Lewis comes when someone says, “It felt so good to laugh.” “I will never look again at another person with the same lens. People carry so much inside; I want to honor that.” Or, “Evie’s journey helped me heal.” 

It’s been a harsh year. I hope t The Forgotten Life of Evelyn Lewis will continue to help us laugh and love and heal. Meanwhile, last summer, in the spirit of reclamation and rebuilding, I published Brilliance: Finding Light in Dark Places.Six weeks of readings lead us in both our present and past realities, and invite us out of the shadows to the One who said, “I’m the Light of the world.” 

Because even though life feels a lot like a D-I-Y project, it really isn’t. As Evie ultimately figured out, it’s a “Come to Me” journey, where we collect others along the way. Although laughter and sweet tea help a whole lot.

Piecing Life Together With Slow Stitching

by Cleo Lampos

My mom seldom had empty hands. When she finished pressing dough into loaves, feeding the chickens, or ironing heavy cotton, her fingers picked up scraps of fabrics left over from the feed sack clothing she designed and stitched for my sister and me. From these bits of cloth, postage stamp quilts emerged. Cozy coverings for an uninsulated home in central Iowa farmland. Frugal living with a needle and thread.

 These images impressed upon my mind at an early age translated into the historical fiction that I have written. In A Mother’s Song, the novel that highlights the orphan train, an entire chapter is dedicated to the history of frontier quilt patterns. One of the characters is buried with her favorite comforter wrapped around her, a custom of many pioneers. The novel binds family, home and second chances with love.

Another historical novel, Riding the Rails to Home: A Newsie Rides the Orphan Train, includes the quilt square that Stephen carries as a reminder of his mother, who dies of cholera. At the end of the book, the Nebraska patchwork of wheat fields yield homesteaders who sew a Hugs and Kisses quilt to welcome this adopted son to the community.

The most personal of the stories based in history is Dust Between the Stitches. After reading my mother’s diary of her early marriage to my father in the Dust Bowl of the 1930s, my fascination with Sunbonnet Sue and Overall Sam with their feed sack creations sparked a story of a Depression era teacher who quilts. At the beginning of each chapter, a typical 1930’s piecing pattern is highlighted. The appendix to the book presents a brief description of each design.

But the most compelling part of quilt making is the quilters themselves. After joining a quilting guild, I found myself talking with the sew-ers more than actually constructing a fabric masterpiece. Their stories intrigued me and spurred my imagination. Eventually, researching every movement in quilting from pioneer stitchers to Gees Bends needle crafters filled many hours. The alliance of Amish and Hmong to produce high quality quilts inspired me. Learning how a therapist who works with anorexia patients has used the soft curves of fabric to heal their souls brought tears to my eyes. These and many more historic and personal accounts encouraged me to share the ways that quilting provides therapy, creativity, functionality and community to so many women. Piecing Fabrics: Mending Livesis the first compilation of narratives about needle work.

This month, the second book brings more stories to inspire and encourage stitchers.  Creating Comfort-ers: The History, Philosophy and Ingenuity of Quilters chronicles the women who used their threads and needles to fight in WWII. Deaf quilters are introduced. Even baking projects with a needle crafter’s touch are explored among the crazy quilt of topics covered within the pages of this nonfiction book. The hopes and despair of real women create the masterpieces that give snuggly comfort.

Slow stitching allows time to meditate. To ponder the thread of creativity that flows like a running stitch through the fabric. To think about the women who find their lives richer from the creations of their hands.

 Hands like my mother’s.

How I became a Daughter of Grace

“I have asked my friend, fellow-writer, and marketing assistant Christine Bierma to write a guest-post for me today. I think you’ll see that her recent experiences have made her uniquely qualified to write about the appalling racial injustice that we’re seeing in America.” ~Lynn

I attended my first political rally in 47 years last week. It was in my hometown, just a few miles up the street. I read about it on Facebook and felt compelled to attend even though I was only 10 days post-op from knee surgery. Why? I went because God introduced me to the most wonderful group of loving Christian women I’ve ever met about 2 years ago. And they happen to be black. 

Ella, “Peaches” was the first lady I met. She had intentionally sought out a primarily white church and attended a Bible study there. If you ask her retell the story about her experience, she will tell you that it took two weeks to summon up the courage to walk through the doors. She knew she would be the only black woman in the room. However, she has an incredible ear to hear God’s voice and his instruction was “to go.” As she sat in a room full of women who she didn’t know and who didn’t look like her she heard God yet again instruct her to speak. 

Speak to the woman sitting to her right and ask her to teach at the yearly conference Peaches’ women’s ministry was holding later in the year. The woman she asked to speak was my best friend. 

Later that week, my friend asked me if I would come for lunch and meet Peaches. My friend was unsure how she should react to a woman who spoke so powerfully about hearing and obeying God’s voice. It was over chicken salad and lemonade that I met and listened to Peaches tell me about her vision for a women’s group that included white women and black women and hispanic woman; women of all races and colors. She had a vision that one day, this group would come together in unity and praise God together. She was already leading a group of black women from her church who called themselves, Daughters of Grace. Now, she felt she needed to find some white women to join them. And that she told us, is where we came in. 

Instantly I was mesmerized by her passion and her love for God. I never heard anyone speak about race so plainly and I never dreamed of being part of a multiethnic group before, in fact, most of my upbringing was about segregation. I’m not sure my community was inherently racist, but it had been built on the principle of separatism. I grew up in a Dutch family, went to a Dutch conservative church, went to a Dutch school, a Dutch college, married a Dutch man. My whole life had been defined by being around people who looked like, thought like, lived like and worshipped just like me. Even so, Peaches had captured my heart in a way I was not prepared for with her fervor and the way she spoke about the Holy Spirit. It was compelling, unfamiliar and I wanted to know more. 

The first meeting my friend and I attended was at Peaches’ church in a town about 45 minutes away from where I lived. I was nervous not knowing what to expect. As I pulled up to the church, a young black man was standing outside the building and as I looked at him, I realized I was afraid. I am ashamed to even write about my fear because of what I know now. Now when I see this man, I know his name and have held his children. But at the time, I was suddenly confronted with the racism that I didn’t even know existed in my heart. Somewhere during my life I had learned, accepted and believed that black men were dangerous. I do not have one reason, not one experience that led me to believe that except that at that moment, I couldn’t deny it.  

The night at the church was filled with many firsts for me. It was the first time I was one of only two white women in a room. I was very aware of my race and that I did not look like everyone else. It didn’t help that Peaches stood up and told the whole room that she had brought two guests with her, as if everyone there hadn’t already realized who we were! As we sat there and watched, listened, worshiped and prayed my fear began to fade away.  I was still hesitant to let down my guard but that didn’t stop the group from embracing me. They hugged, prayed over and prayed for me with genuine love.  It was overwhelming.  Although I didn’t understand everything that I saw or heard that night, the Holy Spirit was evident and powerful. 

• 

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• 

• 

At the end of the night we stood in a circle around the tiny sanctuary and linked arms and sang, “There’s a sweet sweet sprit in this place, and I know that it’s the spirit of the Lord” As I looked around the room at all of the beautiful women and listened to them sing I was compelled to share that experience with more of my white friends. I saw and felt a unity there that I had never known before. God was so evident in that room that night but in a way that was totally new and different for me and everyone in that room. He was showing us a facet of his beauty we had never seen. 

That is the story of how I became a member of Daughters of Grace. The story of how God introduced me to a community of beautiful believers who have welcomed me and my whole family and included us with open arms.

It is because of those relationships that I went to CVS last week and bought a poster board and spent an hour writing out Black Lives Matter. It is because of those relationships that I limped through my town’s city center with my son and my husband and said the names of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor and took time to think about the injustice that many of my friends experience daily that I never have had to confront or name. 

A few days after the protest I was on a Zoom call with the board members of Daughters of Grace and was asked to lead the group in a closing prayer. I took some time to tell my sisters that I loved them and that my heart broke for their sons, husbands and nephews. That I was worried about their safety and that I was sorry that I had never thought about it before. Then I asked about their thoughts and experiences. 

Peaches told us that she is afraid every time one of her sons is pulled over. She is afraid one of them will say something that will put them in danger. I’ve thought about that for days now. I have never been afraid that one of my sons would be in danger when interacting with a police officer. I’ve never been afraid that someone would call the cops on them. Ever. Her story has made me think about how different our experiences are and how unfair that is. 

In John 15 Jesus commands us to love one another and then he goes a lot further and says, “greater love has no one than this; to lay down your life ones friend.”

What is the answer to injustice and racism? Love is. 

What I have been learning with my sisters in Daughters of Grace is that I can not truly love you if I don’t know you. Once I get to know you, you are no longer a stranger. Once I get to know you, I am no longer afraid of our differences. Once I look into your eyes and listen to your hopes and dreams, once I meet your family and hug your babies, I am no longer afraid. And even though we look different and we may worship differently and we may speak differently, we are no longer strangers, we are now friends. If you are my friend and I see that you are being mistreated, misunderstood, misrepresented and that your power, your voice, your life is not being valued, when I see that, I can’t help but stand. I can’t help but cry. I can’t help but pray and long for a better tomorrow. Because I love you! 

As I look at the life of Jesus, he never met anyone he didn’t want to get to know more, unless it was someone misusing their power. He had no time for people who believed they were better than others. What Jesus did have time for were those who were marginalized, forgotten, poor, broken, abused and misunderstood. He went out of his way to be with people who didn’t look like him, didn’t act like him and didn’t come from the same place as him. He loved people so deeply that he would stop everything he was doing to listen. And today, I think that is what we as Christians are called to as well. 

When I say “we,” what I mean is those of you who look like me. White people. We need to listen. Listen without talking. Listen to what our fellow brothers and sisters of color are saying about their experiences. 

Assume a posture of humility for a moment.  Humility will lead us to reconciliation and unity and love. Love is the answer. 

Today, would you take a moment to ask yourself, what would it mean to love like Jesus did?

To learn more about Daughters of Grace visit their website at www.daughtersofgrace.net or follow them on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/DaughtersofGraceSisters/

To read more from Christine Bierma visit her blog at www.christinebierma.com

The best writers are readers

I am thrilled to welcome my friend Rachel McMillian as a guest blogger this week. Ken and I are on a bike trip in Europe and I’m so thankful that Rachel was willing to help me on the blog. I hope you enjoy her writing, look for her books and add them to your “To Be Read” pile. Welcome Rachel!

As a writer, I use books as some people might a course or a workshop: studying structure, and dialogue. Noticing the way an author immerses me in a world, culture and moment in history that inspires me to read more.    But reading not only enhances my ability and confidence as a writer, it helps me strive to be a better human. For instance, several publications including the Washington Post and the New York Times have lately featured research suggesting a correlation between reading and empathy.  As a woman of faith, empathy is a natural extension of my Christian worldview.  As a writer and reader, empathy is a sure-fire way to ensure a created character is an extension of a fictional friend.

While I read to learn from authors who excel at their craft, I also read for encouragement: to find the characters who parallel my journey, who express my doubts and my fears, who I empathizewith.    When Christy Huddleston asks Miss Alice endless questions after she moves to Cutter Gap in Catherine Marshall’s masterpiece Christy, I see a bit of myself in her earnest desire to encounter God and His word on a deeper level.  One of the most powerful moments in my reading life occurred when I read a scene in Lynn Austin’s Fire by Night. Julia Hoffman, a nurse in the Civil War era, recognizes she has much to offer the world beyond her cushioned upbringing and wonders how she is supposed to follow her fiancé Nathaniel Greene without question– even as God nudges her to serve others and use her recently discovered gifts:

“But aren’t women allowed to hear from God?” she asks her friend Phoebe. “Are only our fathers or our husbands qualified to tell us what God wants? I thought’s Id heart God speaking to me.[…] So should I try to become the person he wants me to be or the person God wants me to be?”

This conversation in my copy of the novel is translucent with wear, underlined and highlighted.  It spoke so deeply into my own insecurities as a woman of faith and challenged me to seek out God’s voice beyond human expectation.

In Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations, grace is incarnate in the character of Joe Gargery-a kind blacksmith and the protagonist’s brother in law who time and again pays ungrateful Pip’s debts and welcomes him home with open arms despite cruel and neglectful treatment. There is empathy here, sure. There is also Christ’s love. We are alwayswelcome with Him—no matter what we have done.

So, yes, I learn about structure and syntax, story and pace when I read a novel as a writer. But most importantly reading reaffirms who I am. It challenges and encourages me. It strengthens my empathy and my Christian faith. It allows me to step into another person’s shoes and walk around in them (to paraphrase Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird).

In my latest historical series, the catalyst that sends my hero Hamish DeLuca, a talented Toronto lawyer to Boston, is a panic attack.  Hamish, thus, flourishes in his adopted home: finding footing as an amateur sleuth. But, he still suffers from an anxiety and panic disorder in an era where his symptoms were heavily stigmatized and largely misunderstood. Hamish’s mental illness and his symptoms come by him honestly. I don’t impart anything on him that I have not experienced myself. In this vulnerable way, I am able to hopefully establish empathy in my relationship with my readers and combine my earnest love of writing with the hope and passion I have encountered through the fiction I re-read and cherish.

The best writers are readers.

So read on: those who read to inform their own scribblings and those who read to find themselves in other people’s pages. Read to help you become a better writer. Read because it will make you a better human. Read to ask questions and read because it asks the questions you might have been afraid to ask.  Read in every occasion. Given enough time and page I guaranteeyou will find yourself—again and again— read because empathy is alive and apparent in the well-worn pages of a favourite book.

Rachel McMillan is the author of the Herringford and Watts mysteries, the Three Quarter Time series of contemporary romances set in opulent Vienna, and the Van Buren and DeLuca mysteries praised for bringing an authentic 1930’s Boston world to life while normalizing the fictional conversation surrounding mental illness. Her first work of non-fiction, described as a romantic’s guide to independent travel, releases in 2020. Rachel lives in Toronto, Canada

It’s beginning to look a lot like…

I was in the mall the other day and Christmas had arrived. Already? I’m not ready! But this year I want to be. Not for all the glitter and trimmings and presents, but ready for Jesus to arrive in my heart in a deeper, more meaningful way. So while I haven’t bought a single present yet, I’ve begun to read a very special Advent book: Finding the Messiah: From Darkness to Dawn—the Birth of Our Savior by my good friend and fellow author, Jane Rubietta. Her book is exactly what I needed to read as I prepare for Christ’s advent, so I’ve invited her to be my guest blogger this morning.

Please welcome Jane Rubietta:

We moved over the summer, and are still finding things that we”d lost. Still missing stuff. Still walking around boxes of not-yet-unpacked goods, still avoiding eye contact with cardboarded pictures and mirrors and anything remotely resembling decor. Only last week did I manage to put together the third bed, complete with sheets. We are missing one of the little wheels for the frame, so I found some blocks of wood. It should work. 🙂 Yesterday I found the pillows.

So even with the house in disarray, the beds are made. Even though to reach them, one must sidestep carefully the dresser in the middle of the floor, the upside-down tables waiting for a home, the baskets of extra bedding, the books begging for shelves.

The good news is that whether we can find our beds or not, God has made a way for us to find the Messiah. It’s hard to find Christmas in the middle of real life and all the holiday hubbub and marketing. All our wants and hopes rev their engines, dominating our calendars. Ordering (or disordering) our wallets, bulking up our credit card balances.

Seems like, every year, I get to December 25, exhausted, with a pile of dishes in the sink and wrapping paper jamming wastebaskets, and my heart crashes. “What just happened? I have missed it. I’ve missed Christmas, again.”

My grief at missing Christmas has overtaken all other pressures, including deadlines, the storage-state of our home, and everything on my to-do list. This year, more than any other, I hope to deeply seek the Savior.

One of the simple tools that I will use to prepare the resting place of my heart, is silence. Start out with only sixty seconds, maybe, where I still my heart and soul, and point my heart toward God. Want to try it with me?

Set the timer on your phone, or your stovetop, for one minute, haul in a deep breath, and exhale all the words in your brain. Focus, then, on God. God’s love. God’s gift in Christ. Invite God into that place. No need for words. Just pointing your heart.

And then wait there. If your mind derails, downloading a bunch of worries and words, exhale again, reload with God”s presence, and wait some more.

The seconds flee, refilling us with a new sense of calm. Of peace. Silent Night? Silent Minute? Whatever it takes, snag a few and be still.

That level of deep silence is the kind of silence that changes us. Changes our attitude and direction. Changes our day, our relationships. Our hope. Today, and for the upcoming holidays. Just a minute a day, or two or ten…

Let me know how it goes. I”d love to hear from you about how you enter into this Advent season. May this be the year that the Promised One comes, scatters our shadows, shatters our fears, wraps us in the light that is night-splitting love and forgiveness.

Finding the Messiah: A 28-Day guide to deeper devotion during Advent!

Advent is for us all. The brokenhearted, the barren, the aged, the young, the disillusioned, the faithful, the doubting; people going through the motions of faith though faced with God’s silence.

Finding the Messiah: From Darkness to Dawn–the Birth of Our Savior is a unique look into the hearts and souls of the people who people the Advent narratives in Scripture.

Because we, too, are Advent people, and their lives inform our lives, and lead us into significance–because they lead us to the Messiah.

Tired of missing Christmas? Find the Messiah, and find both your greatest adventure and the fulfillment of your greatest desire.

Join me on a four-week daily Advent-ure, beginning the first Sunday in Advent, November 30, 2014.

http://janerubietta.com/books.html