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| Hank and Sharon on vacation 2013 |
Preface
My husband continues to have health concerns and has been feeling poorly of late. Right now, time for writing seems short and distraction seems long. One blog from four years ago loosely fits the prompt.
To answer some of the June prompt, I find that my daily Bible readings and study, good books, good friends, the writings of my InScribe colleagues and my prayers speak to me in regard to writing and to life.
Here are a few phrases from Psalm 16, a prayer by David, that speak to me of writing, faith, and “The Path of Life.”
* The Lord is my portion and cup.
* I bless the Lord who gives me counsel;
* In the night also my heart instructs me.
* I (try to) keep the Lord always before me.
* You show me the path of life.
* In your presence there is fullness of joy.
* In your right hand are pleasures for evermore.
(New Revised Standard Version)
I highly recommend this Psalm in its entirety.
Eureka Moments by Sharon Espeseth (March 10, 2015)
Maybe I became a writer when my story, "The Man Who Loved Auctions," was published. Maybe it was when I gave Dad the small Western People magazine. Or it may have been when Mom phoned to say, "Dad knows this story is about him and that you wrote it. He carries the story around with him. He unfolds and folds it and then puts it in his pocket." My gift of writing had connected with him in his advanced state of Alzheimer's. I only wished I had written it sooner.
Of course, my family, friends, and relatives, especially my parents, could be prejudiced about my writing. Did I mention I got paid for this story?
Then there was Janice, a business owner in our small town, who grabbed me and hugged me enthusiastically on Main Street. She was excited because I had a story published in the Edmonton
Journal (Imagine!)about how great it is to live in a small town, especially one like ours. "As soon as I read it," she said, "I ran down to John's Men's Wear to let John read it."
I had taught three of Janice's kids, so that's pretty close to home, but the Edmonton Journal paid
for their columns in those days.
I kept on writing in my dog-eared, coffee-stained notebooks. My words weren't yet worthy of acid-free ink or acid-free journals. Big, thick notebooks, aka scribblers, were filling up with recipes, to-do lists, garden diagrams, anecdotes of our genius children, shopping lists, and the occasional thought. Did I mention prayers? Time to write was in those prayers. Life had its stumbling blocks, and I wrote about them too.
My sister held the burn-them-when-I'm-gone order. Heaven forbid that anyone should know what actually went on in my head.
My story, "A Holy Night to Remember" was published in Chicken Soup for The Canadian Soul. This seemed like another step toward becoming a writer. Congratulation calls and letters ensued. I too was excited about that and the fact that I also got paid for the story.
I didn't quit my day job of teaching.
To believe in myself as a writer in those days, I needed reassurance that I did have something to say and that I could say it well enough to resonate with readers beyond the concentric circles that cradled me. I needed God's help on this one. Sure enough, I started receiving phone call or letters from people I knew, even from people I didn't know, telling me how I had connected with them.
That was the sign I needed to know I was a writer. Eureka!
Fortunately, my "fan mail" still fit in our mailbox; I didn't need a secretary nor a full time accountant. My head didn't swell beyond recognition, but I came to realize these unexpected contacts as a sign that my "messages in a bottle" could bring joy, hope, comfort, peace, or anything else God put in my heart to share with others. God has said that his word will not return to him empty.
I may never know how my words have affected my readers, nor do I need to know. I do, nevertheless know how my writing has affected me. My writing has given me solace and comfort when I am discouraged. It has helped me regain and maintain my mental stability after, and during, clinical depression. My writing has helped me see the beauty, love, joy, and humour I encounter on a daily basis. Writing has helped me see who God is and how he loves me. It has helped me know and love myself as well as my neighbour.
I pray that through my writing, I will influence my small part of the world to be a more tolerant, loving, and peaceful place. I also may inform others of the Good News we are commissioned by Christ to share.
Of course, my family, friends, and relatives, especially my parents, could be prejudiced about my writing. Did I mention I got paid for this story?
Then there was Janice, a business owner in our small town, who grabbed me and hugged me enthusiastically on Main Street. She was excited because I had a story published in the Edmonton
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| Bear Hug on Main Street |
I had taught three of Janice's kids, so that's pretty close to home, but the Edmonton Journal paid
for their columns in those days.
I kept on writing in my dog-eared, coffee-stained notebooks. My words weren't yet worthy of acid-free ink or acid-free journals. Big, thick notebooks, aka scribblers, were filling up with recipes, to-do lists, garden diagrams, anecdotes of our genius children, shopping lists, and the occasional thought. Did I mention prayers? Time to write was in those prayers. Life had its stumbling blocks, and I wrote about them too.
My sister held the burn-them-when-I'm-gone order. Heaven forbid that anyone should know what actually went on in my head.
My story, "A Holy Night to Remember" was published in Chicken Soup for The Canadian Soul. This seemed like another step toward becoming a writer. Congratulation calls and letters ensued. I too was excited about that and the fact that I also got paid for the story.
I didn't quit my day job of teaching.
To believe in myself as a writer in those days, I needed reassurance that I did have something to say and that I could say it well enough to resonate with readers beyond the concentric circles that cradled me. I needed God's help on this one. Sure enough, I started receiving phone call or letters from people I knew, even from people I didn't know, telling me how I had connected with them.
That was the sign I needed to know I was a writer. Eureka!
Fortunately, my "fan mail" still fit in our mailbox; I didn't need a secretary nor a full time accountant. My head didn't swell beyond recognition, but I came to realize these unexpected contacts as a sign that my "messages in a bottle" could bring joy, hope, comfort, peace, or anything else God put in my heart to share with others. God has said that his word will not return to him empty.
I may never know how my words have affected my readers, nor do I need to know. I do, nevertheless know how my writing has affected me. My writing has given me solace and comfort when I am discouraged. It has helped me regain and maintain my mental stability after, and during, clinical depression. My writing has helped me see the beauty, love, joy, and humour I encounter on a daily basis. Writing has helped me see who God is and how he loves me. It has helped me know and love myself as well as my neighbour.
I pray that through my writing, I will influence my small part of the world to be a more tolerant, loving, and peaceful place. I also may inform others of the Good News we are commissioned by Christ to share.
G. K. Chesterton says, "Our confidence lies in our message and not in ourselves." Eureka! And it isn’t all about the money either.
