C is For Cookie by Lorilee Guenter

 I grew up watching Sesame Street with Cookie Monster devouring any cookie he saw. As a reader, I devour good writing (and not so good writing). As a writer, I want my writing to be as enticing to the readers as those cookies.

A good cookie needs the right number of ingredients, in the right proportions, mixed according to directions. Some are baked. Some are left to cool. Likewise, all good writing follows a recipe that includes word images, grammar and spelling. Different genres need different ingredients just as different cookies do. I would not be happy with a mystery that didn't solve the crime by the end of the story. I would not be happy with a chocolate cookie that lacked cocoa.

Every writer, no matter what genre, needs community. While the act of writing is solitary, the craft of writing is not. Through workshops and classes we learn to hone our craft. Critique groups and editors help us polish the work. They help us determine if one spice, one element overpowers the others. Family, friends, or a group of other writers can help us take a break to regain perspective. They encourage us to keep going when we want to stop. In addition, they might be willing to listen as you talk through the roadblocks in front of you.

Every writer needs that spark of an idea they can build upon. We each find inspiration in different places and different ways. There is one commonality, attention. When I rush through life, or let distractions pull at my attention, I miss opportunities. I also miss details that could add interest to my words. Distraction busies my mind so I neglect to pause and consider what I am seeing, hearing or learning. It tells me "I don't have time," or "my words don't matter anyway."

I have a bad habit of trying to taste the cookies before they cool enough to touch. This results in a burnt tongue and difficulty tasting the blend of flavours. In editing, it can be useful to let the writing cool so that when you re-read it you can taste the flavour of the words. Then you will be better able to notice what blends well and what is out of place. A small group of first readers can offer feedback on the results just like taste testers do with cookies.

A good baker knows the right time to take the cookies out of the oven. Too little time and they are raw in the middle, too long and they are burnt. Neither is optimal. Too little editing and other work on a manuscript, whether short or long, can leave the reader wishing for more polish. Too much editing can take a piece that sparkles and turn it into a flat specimen, burnt around the edges. Most writers struggle with under cooked stories instead of overcooked ones. Some writers have been know to take a match to old, unappealing work so no one tastes the stale words.

As Christian writers we have one powerful ingredient in our writing: prayer. Through prayer and contemplation, the Holy Spirit takes our offerings and multiplies them. The power in our words, whether we write in the secular market or Christian market, comes from the Word. When our writing is baked with prayer, we can be confident it will find the right audience. It gives us the courage to share our words.

A dessert table with plates of cookies and sweets is enticing and full of choices. As a community of writers, our offerings should also be enticing and full of choice so there is something for everyone. 

At the end of the day, when we set aside our writing, we can reward ourselves with a good story and a cookie.

A Distant Green — Lynda Schultz

Sometimes we don't see the fulfillment of our dreams or the results of all our work. In the end, it doesn't really matter. The best is yet to come. Take Moses for example…

A DISTANT GREEN

Horeb, Sinai, Nebo—I’m glad this is the last mountain I’ll have to climb.

The old man chuckled to himself as he picked his way through the rocks. His breath was ragged, but anticipation gave him strength as he took the last step that would bring him to his destination at the summit. Tomorrow would be a new day and he wouldn’t be complaining about mountains. He doubted that he’d even have to worry about coming down off of this particular one. He sensed that this would be his final trip, as surely as he sensed the presence of God around him.

The day was clear. He looked out, shading his eyes from the glare of the sun. He could see it all—all that Yahweh had promised the Hebrews from long before he was born. It was so…green.

Ah, now I know I’ve spent too long in the wilderness—to be so impressed by something as simple as a colour!

A millisecond of regret clouded his thoughts. The impatience of his youth, that rashness he’d thought had been left far behind him at the foot of a dead Egyptian, had caught him unprepared as an old man. Two blows, and unwise words that were an affront to God’s holiness, had cost him his walk through this beautiful land another generation would now enjoy.

Still, it would have been something to walk over there in all that greenery, to touch the ground You promised to give to our Father Abraham’s children.

“Moses, my friend.”

The old man wasn’t startled. Once upon a time he would have jumped at the sound of God speaking to him. Not anymore. After all this time he heard God’s voice even when Yahweh wasn’t speaking out loud.

“Yes, my Lord.” Moses waited. It was not for mere man, even the friend of God, to speak before his Maker had his say.

“This is it. This is the land I promised to give to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. They were all men of faith, my friend, in spite of their frailties. They roamed around, living in tents, all the while believing that this day would come. I told them their descendants would return to this land, build houses, plant crops, found cities.”

His audience of one nodded his head slowly.

“I wanted you at least to see it, even though you won’t cross the Jordan with the others.”

“I appreciate that, Lord, I honestly do.”

It was an end, but it was also a beginning.

“So, they’re going to make it this time?”

Israel’s soon-to-be-ex-leader could almost hear God chuckle at the hint of doubt in His servant’s voice.

“This time they will.”

With just the tiniest twinge of envy, Moses thought about two men who had been with him from the beginning of this journey who were going to be especially delighted to see the end of this journey.

“Caleb and Joshua are finally going to get their vindication. They told the others that giants and fortified cities wouldn’t be any problem for You,” he remarked as he mentally annexed: And now those “others” won’t get the chance to find out how true that is.

“I heard that, Moses.”

The old man smiled.

It was as though two men stood side by side perfectly attuned to each other and each comfortable in the presence of the other. Anyone observing would think he saw only one old man who seemed to be talking to himself. Moments passed in silence until…

“It’s time, Moses.”

A wind, like the breath of angels’ wings, stirred around the old man’s head. He took one last look at Canaan and then turned his eyes toward what he couldn’t see, but what he knew was there. The brilliant green of the Promised Land faded and gave way before the overwhelming glory of another place.

Face to face this time, Lord?

"Truly face to face this time, my friend."