Paradox

I'm a speck in the face of eternity, and at the same time, I hold infinite value.

I'm having loads of trouble preparing for a writers' conference at the end of this month. This is the first such venue I've joined, and it has me biting my nails. 

Like most things in my life, I'm trying to give it my best. In school, I always went for the A. At work, I strive for exemplary evaluations. In this case, I'm literally driving myself crazy trying to create the perfect book proposal. My anxiety is compounded by the fact that there are scads of information on the conference website as to how to "do it right" and the web at large is crawling with paths to literary success. 

Aaaaahhhhh!!!!!!

I sip from my Louisa May Alcott mug (purchased for me by my son and sister at the author's home in Concord, Massachusetts) to give me inspiration. She was the first writer whose work spoke to me, and I've read countless biographies detailing her impoverished roots and slow rise to fame. I don't think I'm looking for fame, I tell myself, but I do have an important message and an able pen, both gifts from God, and both needing an audience. I compare my "resume" with the conference coordinator's sample, and laugh at the vastness of difference between our accomplishments. She's written six books and contributed to over 100 periodicals; I've had exactly three articles published, and that's counting one for an Al Anon newsletter. Not exactly a publisher's dream.

So I turn my attention to Anne Frank and Corrie ten Boom, both unlikely authors whose works were born out of bitter experience. The former didn't live to see her diary in print, and surely never imagined millions would read and relate to her adolescent scribblings. She did, however, have the temerity to assert that she wanted to go on living even after her death. The latter appealed to a postwar generation looking for redemptive value in an arguably Godless period of human history. Can my story find its market, as theirs did, despite the madness of modern day publishing?

I cringe at the word "marketing." It sounds like just what it is: commercialism. Publishing is an industry, and industries live or die based on sales. Like J.D. Salinger and Harper Lee (dare I place myself in such distinguished company?), I prefer a low profile, but privacy doesn't bring in revenue. So I reluctantly promise to shamelessly promote my books, even to the extent of turning cartwheels in Times Square. Will my other responsibilities allow me to keep such a commitment, assuming I muster the nerve to follow through?

Which brings me to my original point. This is not about me, any more than it was about Frank or ten Boom. This is about a message, a dispatch. Neither of the books I'm peddling (there's that concept again) came out of my head; I'm just not that clever. Both arrived unbidden, in the midst of my daily grind, and more or less constipated my brain till they were - ahem - released. Am I brazen enough to suppose the God of the universe desires to use my voice to convey one or two of His thoughts? 

Why not? He used Moses' staff and Peter's boat . Why not my keyboard? I may be made of dust, but the One who made me is formed from the stuff of eternity. If, as the Bible attests, the Holy Spirit resides in this flawed body of mine, doesn't that impart to said body a derived pricelessness?

So, like I said, I may be a speck, but this speck has an essential purpose. What foolishness to allow comparisons and obstacles to overshadow the work the Almighty has called me to do.

I think He can handle a little thing like a writers' conference.

Dumped On, AKA, Winter Wonderland

It’s been an atrocious winter. We’ve had just about every mix of precipitation known to man since before the calendar even turned to the first day of winter. Schools have been closed, leaving parents scrambling to find child care at the last minute. Power outages abound, causing families to hunker down in unheated houses, while food spoils in stocked refrigerators. People all over the East Coast are muddling through but in truth, we’re starting to feel dumped on.

Yet, in the midst of all this inconvenience, the scenery is magnificent. The trees glisten, but with heaps of frozen snow that threaten to sever limbs from trunks, forcing us to contend with downed wires and damaged property. The landscape is truly grand, a silvery marvel, but at the same time, it makes traveling hazardous and unpredictable. There surely are two sides to this wintry weather.

In contemplating these paradoxes, I find parallels in my attitudes. I have so many blessings in my life, yet I’ve been taking others’ inventory (12 step program-speak for passing judgment) on a frequent basis. A neighbor who has come through in the clutch on numerous occasions criticizes rather than showing appreciation for my kindness; nothing new, it’s her usual M.O, as if she would somehow be diminished by expressing thanks. So why am I dwelling on it? A friend is a bit demanding; yet this same friend has been a godsend when my heart has needed it most. Why don't I focus on that? A car wash business does a shoddy job, then refuses to make good on it; there is no up side to this one, but must I let it ruin my day?

I guess my point is that it’s way too easy to miss the good stuff for the muck.

But none of this should surprise me. We humans are nothing if not shortsighted. God created a glorious garden, and our first parents tossed it away for a piece of fruit. Esau traded his firstborn privileges for a bowl of stew.  Moses’s newly freed campers looked back longingly on the provisions they received while living in merciless Egyptian servitude. If the world’s a stage, as Shakespeare postulated, we actors keep rerunning the same play. We let grumbling supersede gratitude, and gain only misery.

"Now godliness with contentment is great gain. For we brought nothing into this world, and we can carry nothing out. And having food and clothing, with these we shall be content.” 

1 Timothy 6:6-8