Happy New Year to the New Bride!

Our beautiful (inside and out) niece, Erin, is getting married this weekend, and there are so many things I want to tell her! So here goes:

1.) You're marrying a man. Therefore - and hold onto your hair here! - your husband thinks, speaks, and acts like a man.

2.) For your information, men do not ask for directions or any manner of assistance. Period.

3.) Men are not mind-readers. For example, it usually will not occur to a man that you want him to take out the trash simply because it's overflowing. You have to actually say, "Honey, would you please take out the trash?" (You cannot be mad at a man for not doing something you never asked him to do...because men aren't mind-readers.)

4.) Certain words have different meanings to men. For example, to a man, the word "clean" means "relatively presentable when compared to the homes of most of his bachelor friends", while to you, "clean" likely means "completely germ-free, sanitized, organized, and styled perfection". The word "party" also means something different to a man. You think table settings, place cards, entrees, and complimentary wines, while he thinks chips, dips, beer, and the largest television known to mankind.

5.) Whereas a woman has a large portion of her brain devoted to nurturing, a man has a large portion devoted to protecting. You may want to keep this in mind should your husband fail to make you chicken noodle soup when you're sick: While it may look like he's doing nothing, he's actually busy plotting all the ways in which he would kill the sorry fool who ever tried to hurt you.

6.) Men don't actively try to understand problems; they're too busy trying to solve them. If you want understanding, talk to your girlfriends; if you want solutions, talk to your husband.

7.) But know that he will never be able to solve or understand why it takes you twice as long to get ready to go somewhere. Given enough time though, he might accept it - or at least give up on complaining about it.

8.) The wide-eyed, tender-hearted, dreamer of a boy still lives inside the man. And he needs to play. With his toys. They started as matchbox cars and then became real cars, boats, horses, golf equipment, and other extremely expensive "toys". Both the boy and the man will be immeasurably happier if you let them have, and play with, their toys.

9.) Take turns choosing movies instead of trying to agree on one. The boy will always want to see millions of dollars worth of explosives and special effects - and doesn't really care about dialogue - or plot. When it's his turn to choose the movie, sit quietly, eat your popcorn, and let the boy - and his imagination - run free.

10.) Neither boys nor men play in the briar patch - and you shouldn't either. When a man wants the new Taylormade R11 golf driver for Christmas, he doesn't say, "Whatever you do, please don't buy me that Taylormade R11 driver." So, if you say something like, "Please don't buy me jewelry," when you really want jewelry...well, you aren't going to get any - for thirty years or so. It takes roughly thirty years for a man to figure out the briar patch game - just ask my uncle Bob.

11.) Understanding and accepting the above mentioned things should prevent several spats. Yet there are still bound to be some. When you're really good and angry, I suggest you excuse yourself to the bathroom. Close - and lock - the door behind you. Try some deep breathing exercises. If that doesn't work, then clean the toilet. With his toothbrush.

On a more serious note, the best advice I can offer either of you, in any situation, is this: Think, speak, and act generously, in love, keeping in mind that the opposite of love isn't hate; it's selfishness.

"Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility, value others above yourself, not looking to your own interests, but each of you to the interests of others."
Philippians 2:2-4

And know that when all else fails, I am here, loving you both, and wishing you life, love, and happiness beyond your wildest dreams. Call or come on over anytime.

With high hopes, great joy, and overflowing love, I am, as ever,
Your aunt Cat

Something to Look Forward to

So many people are understandably sad this time of year. Tradition and change collide during the holidays, when traditions are similar enough to remind us of previous years, yet change makes us miss days gone by, people we love and miss.

Since last Christmas was my husband’s first Christmas without both of his parents, I knew it had the potential to be the saddest Christmas of his life. Not wanting that to be the case, I began looking back over all my Christmases, for the things that brought me the most joy and excitement.

Surprisingly, even as a small child, my greatest joy and excitement did not come from things at all; it came from the anticipation, from counting down the days of December, until I was surrounded by family, feeling loved and well fed and fussed over, and – finally! – getting to open presents. But I don’t remember the presents themselves, only the joyful anticipation of them.

As an adult, most of my joy and excitement still come from the anticipation of Christmas. So, last year, I decided to give my husband something to anticipate, something to look forward to every day, during the twelve days of Christmas. Every day, there was a little surprise gift for him. Most of his gifts didn’t cost much, if anything – his favorite cinnamon rolls for breakfast, a Christmas CD to listen to in the car, fragrant clippings of a pine tree to make his office smell Christmas-y, a funny poem, a massage after work – all small things that required nothing more than a little time, a little thought, a little love. And do you know what? It worked! We both had plenty of Christmas joy, because we both had something to look forward to, every day.

And we still do. Short-term, I’m doing the twelve days of Christmas for my husband again this year, and I can hardly wait! Long-term, the real gift, the birth of our Savior, gives us even more to look forward to, including the chance to see all those whom we love and miss again, in heaven. This is a gift my heart would celebrate even if I was the last, lone person on earth. It is a gift that belongs to us all, gives us all so much to celebrate and look forward to, regardless of our earthly circumstances. So, it is with great joy and anticipation that I say to you: Merry Christmas, y’all!

Danville Admirals Marching Band Rocks!

I have written many love letters to the state of Kentucky, but this one is for the city of Danville and the Danville Admirals Marching Band.

Thanks to my daughter’s involvement in the marching band this year, I’ve learned that marching bands work every bit as hard as football and basketball teams – maybe even harder. During summer vacation, our marching band went to band camp for two weeks, from 8:00AM until 8:00PM – in July! – one afternoon, the kids literally fried an egg on the back parking lot where they were marching, just to prove that they could! And once school started, our band practiced for three-hours after school, three days a week, played for all the home football games on Friday night, and then got on the bus at 10:30AM on Saturday mornings to participate in marching band competitions they did not return from until at least 10:30PM. When the kids really wanted to go to the movies with their friends, they got on the bus anyway. When the kids were tired, they got on the bus anyway. When they were sick, they got on the bus anyway. And their parents didn’t worry – much – even when they couldn’t come along.

That’s because there were always plenty of parents who traveled with the marching band, and I tell you truly that I have never met a nicer, more devoted, more generous group of parents gathered together in one place. Never. These parents do everything from building props, loading, hauling and unloading said props, pulling them on and off the field before and after each performance, to washing uniforms and making sure that each kid always has plenty to eat and drink. They even provide a hot dinner for every member of the marching band whenever they can’t get home for dinner – which is often. These parents know more than just the kids’ names. They know who’s happy, who’s sad, who’s sick, and who’s hurt, and what’s more, they care. When they’ve done all they can possibly do to help, then they pray. (Two marching band moms told me that when they woke up on the morning of state semi-final competition, they lay in bed praying for every single member of the marching band by name!)

Marching Band Parents Praying Together

And then there’s our band director, Mr. Towns. Although I admit that discussing marching band with Mr. Towns is every bit as serious as discussing bypass surgery with a cardiologist, the bottom line is that he and his wife clearly, deeply care about these kids – in marching band and beyond.

Mr. and Mrs. Towns and their two biological children watch their marching band perform – I say “biological children” because they have 42 other kids, on the field in front of them, all of whom refer to them as “Mama and Papa Towns” – they have earned these titles. Here are some of their other kids:

All in all, I have to say that this is an extremely disciplined, hardworking group of people, with a helluva lot of heart. And here is the moment that made it all worthwhile – for me, at least.

Left: Lined up to hear the bands that will advance from state semi-finals to finals. Right: Danville is announced as a finalist!

Yet, although many people in many cities could tell you how their hometown football team or basketball team did this year, very few know how their marching band did. (I am as guilty of this as the next person – I don’t even know if my high school had a marching band! - sorry, Mr. Towns!) But the people of Danville know and love their marching band. For example, when I took my daughter to the doctor last week, the doctor wished her good luck at state competition and said she really thought they might win this year.

In fact, they came in second.

But even so, as soon as the marching band bus hit town last Sunday, they were met by police cars and fire trucks and escorted (paraded) through town, with lights flashing and medals hanging out the windows of the school bus!

One teensy, tiny little drawback: On Monday, when it came time for trick-or-treating, our little Southern Belle was busy…

...sleeping.

Still, I am humbled and proud and incredibly grateful to be a part of the community of Danville, to know the other marching band moms and dads, Mama and Papa Towns, and to be a marching band mom. Thank you, all of you.

And thanks to my daughter, Laurel Grace, for making it such a pleasure, such a privilege, such an honor to be your mom.

Go Ads! Woot! Woot!

Click the link below to see The Danville Admirals Marching Band perform at Regional Competition:

http://www.youtube.com/user/danvillekyschools#p/a/u/2/Q66cAYuy0Qc

At the Risk of Sounding Crazy er...

"Help" is the prayer I pray most often, both for myself and others. In my experience, although this is a prayer that's always answered, it's rarely answered how and when I think it should be.

"How" isn't usually a problem for me. Most plans are better than mine, so naturally God's plans are always better. Most of the time, I can see this, which enables me to trust even when I can't.

But "when" is a problem I stumble over again and again, since I am perhaps the most impatient person on the planet. I occasionally wonder if God's off taking a nap, or watching Jimmy Kimmel Live when I really need Him. (I know, I know. I'm working on it, okay?)

For me, doubt is like a shadow, deepening in the dark, and creeping forward on lonely, sleepless nights, when I am sick with worry. Last year, when I felt surrounded by it, I began doing the only thing I knew to do: I stood in my window, looking out across the lake, to the power plant, where the lights are always on and work is always being done. Always.

Then, I told myself that things couldn't possibly be as bad as they seemed, because if the end of the world was really coming, or had already come, there wouldn't be anybody at the power plant; everybody would be at home, with their families. And I was right: everything worked out just fine. Eventually.

Since then, I have come to think of that power plant as a metaphor for God: The lights are always on and the work is always being done, even if I can't see it.

But tonight, the power plant isn't God. Tonight, the power plant is heaven, where my friend, Rick, took up residence two nights ago. Tonight, I stand in my window, looking out across the water, knowing exactly where Rick is, that he's healthy and happy, and that I will see him again; I just can't cross the water right now.

But my love can. And it does. So, until I cross the water, I send my love to those on the other side. To all those stuck on this side of the water with me, especially those suffocating in grief, as I am, I wish you strength, courage, and hope, always hope.

"Blessed are those who mourn for they shall be comforted." - Matthew 5:4

The Perfect Friendship

Have you ever noticed what perfect friends pets make? That's because our pets can't talk, which makes our friendships with them pretty one-sided. If our dog, or cat, or hamster could talk, they would almost certainly say something to make our relationship less...agreeable - something like, "Enough about you and your problems. I've got REAL problems of my own, like I'm hungry, so quit your cryin' and fix my supper," or "If you take me to the vet, I'm going to bite and scratch until you have to see a doctor, too - that's only fair," or "Great, just great - that's exactly what I needed: ANOTHER sister. NOT." No doubt, many older pets would complain endlessly about rheumatoid arthritis, digestive issues, and fatigue - just like many older people. But since our pets can't voice their thoughts, feelings, opinions, or complaints, our friendships with them are pretty dern perfect.

Our friendships with other people, however, are far less than perfect. They're afflicted with all kinds of feelings, opinions, complaints, misconceptions, idiosyncrasies, inequalities, annoyances and other maladies. And of course, none of this is ever our fault; the problems obviously lie within our friends. Or do they?

Recently, I was able to reestablish a friendship that I foolishly turned my back on nearly a decade ago, without so much as a discussion. That led me to take a really close look at my pitiful self, and my even more pitiful reasons for having done this. In doing so, what I have learned, like I learn everything else - late, and in the hardest possible way - is this:

1.) When we're young and we have plenty of friends, we think we will always have plenty of friends. So, the loss of one doesn't seem so huge. When we're older, we learn to discern true friends from other friends; we realize just how rare and valuable those true friends are, and we do our best to hold onto them.

2.) When we're young, assuming or interpreting that a friend doesn't care about us is exactly the same as our friend saying, "I don't care about you," when it isn't the same thing at all. People who care about each other often hurt each other unintentionally ("unintentionally" was the key word there), so feeling hurt never warrants ending a friendship without discussion.

3.) Feeling unlovable doesn't mean you actually are. True friends are people who love you at your most unlovable.

4.) Our money and things - or lack thereof - doesn't interest true friends one way or the other. A true friend doesn't care if we can't afford to eat out or see a movie; they'll just come on over. When they arrive, they don't care if we're wearing the same shirt we wore last week, if our silverware doesn't match, or if all our cups - and chairs, for that matter - are plastic. They're there to see us, and we're there, so they're never disappointed!

5.) I now evaluate all friendships based on the answers to the following questions: Would my friend visit me in the hospital? In prison? At my funeral? If the answers are yes, then I have what I consider to be a true friend - and I'll take a true friend over a perfect friend any day!

Finally, I just wish to say thanks to my friend, Sandy, who employed me when I was practically unemployable, who didn't care a whit that I was a member of the working poor, who liked me when I felt unlikable, and who ultimately forgave me for allowing our friendship to float away on time and circumstance, when I was young-ish and stupid-er.

Thanks to all my other friends as well - you know who you are - and you know who to call should you find yourself in a hospital bed, a jail cell, or a casket. (Actually, should you take up residence in a casket, it'd probably be best if you didn't call me directly - have someone else do it - because writers tend to be a little...fragile.)

P.S. To my dogs: Don't worry, I always assume you're thinking the snarkiest remark you could possibly think at me, so your inability to put these remarks into words doesn't really affect our relationship - hey, if a friend doesn't speak up for you when you can't speak up for yourself...well, you know...they suck. I am trying not to suck. For you. You're welcome.

Stop the Clock

While we were building our current home, my family and I stored most of our possessions. Then, a little over a year later, these things were delivered to our new house. What a happy day! It was like Christmas in August, each carefully packed box revealing something precious that we'd forgotten we even had. Among these cherished items was a grandmother clock from my childhood home, which had come to live in our home before my daughter, Laurel, could even climb stairs. When Laurel first heard that clock ring out in our new house, she froze, gasped, and exclaimed, "The clock! The clock! Now this house feels like home!" And I understood completely.

But in the weeks that followed, I realized that something had gone wrong with the clock somewhere between moving and storage, because it no longer kept the correct time. I remember thinking, What good is a clock that announces the wrong time every fifteen minutes? So, I stopped our clock and made a mental note to call a repairman, which I never did. That clock has been as still and as silent as a statue for nearly two years now.

And then, this summer, as we do every summer, my family and I traveled to Bardstown, Kentucky, to see The Stephen Foster Story (www.stephenfoster.com), a musical about Stephen Foster's life and music. (For those who don't know, Stephen Foster was the first famous American composer, and the only composer to have written two state songs: "My Old Kentucky Home", the song of Kentucky, and "Way Down Upon the Swanee River", the song of Florida.)

Since my mother played the role of Jeanie, Stephen's love interest, in The Stephen Foster Story when I was three years old, this show formed some of my first memories. Stephen Foster's music became the first distinct music of my memory. The devil in the show became my first distinct fear - I can still remember getting squirmy and wanting to hide under my chair whenever the devil took the stage - and I can still feel my father's warm hand on me, trying to settle me. I can still remember the scratchy feel of my mother's last costume (the pale-pink dress with tiers of lace ruffles) brushing up against my face, as she tried to hold onto me with one hand, and sign autographs with other, after the show, on those warm summer nights. (On the left is an old newspaper clipping of my mother as Jeanie.)

So going back to see this show now is like going back home. I am overwhelmed by nearly identical sights, sounds, and smells of my childhood, my family, my mother, and my motherland, so that when the cast finally sings "My Old Kentucky Home", with My Old Kentucky Home lit up in the background, I begin to weep like a baby.

This year, Laurel happened to look over at me as I was wiping my eyes, during "My Old Kentucky Home". She said, "Ummmmm...Mama...are you okay?" (I think it's fair to say that she was more than a little concerned.)

When we were back in the car, I tried to explain the deep feeling of home that washes over me whenever we come back to this place, but Laurel didn't really understand - she tried, and I could tell that she really wanted to.

And then, this week, I remembered our clock. I wound it, gave the pendulum a little nudge, and when it rang out in song, once again, Laurel froze. She looked as though she might cry. "That!" I said, pointing at her. "That's it! Right there! That's the feeling of home!" Laurel nodded her understanding.

I'm letting our clock run now. And although it's on my list to call a repairman this week, whether that clock is ever repaired or not, I will continue to let it run, because it announces something far more important than time; it announces that we are home.

And even though we've started our clock, I encourage you to stop yours. Stop your clock and take the time to go back home this summer, in whatever way you can, whether that means visiting with your folks for a few days, or going fishing for a few hours, or taking only a few minutes, to eat raspberries warmed by the sun right off the bush, or to stand in a horse barn breathing in the mixed scent of horses and tobacco curing from the rafters. Whatever home means to you, take the time to go there this summer. It's worth it. There's no place like home.

More than a Change Jar

My sweet cousin, John, got married this month, as so many people do in the month of June. And when I went to sign the card, I wanted to write something thoughtful and meaningful. But, as I thought about John and his beautiful bride, Ashley, pictured them joining hands, and setting off together on the road of life, I became overwhelmed. I thought about the inevitable ups and downs they would experience together: joy and sorrow, hope and desperation, health and sickness, success and failure, and I just didn't know how to put everything I hoped for them into words.

Then, yesterday, our change jar caught my eye. (I don't know what you Northerners do with your change, but all the Southern people I know keep most of their change in a Mason jar.)

I remembered a time of both great hope and desperation, early in my marriage, during the lean, hungry years. I remembered a time when our change jar was empty. I can still picture my husband standing in our bedroom, asking me where all our change had gone. And I can still feel the shame and dread that filled me in that moment.

I told my husband the truth: that although I hadn't known exactly how much money we had left in our checking account, it couldn't have been much, and that I hadn't had enough gas in my car to get to work that morning. So, I had emptied our change jar to buy gas, to get to work - and I had really hoped he wouldn't notice. I told him I was sorry.

I will never, as long as I live, forget the look on my husband's face after I told him this. He looked at me with such sadness, tenderness, compassion, kindness, and love. This is what he said, "You need to tell me these things. I don't want you living like that, like your last and only hope in life is a change jar. You have more than a change jar. You have me, and whatever you need, tell me, and I'll find a way to get it for you. Somehow, I'll get it for you. I promise. I love you."

At that moment, I knew that I was a truly wealthy woman, that I possessed far more than a change jar, far more than all the change in the world could ever buy. This is what I wish for John and Ashley, and for all the couples joining hands this month and setting off on the rest of their lives together: I wish you more than a change jar.

Endings and Beginnings

Next week is my daughter Laurel’s last week of eighth grade, her last week of middle school…which leads me to recall her first week of middle school:

We had just moved and knew not a soul at the middle school. Laurel was a little nervous. I was more than a little nervous for her. I remembered my own middle school experiences –which didn’t exactly help. “Is middle school really necessary?” I asked my husband privately, using the same tone I might’ve used to say, “Is torture really necessary?” My husband said, “Yes, middle school is necessary… by law.” So off we went, to middle school.

Laurel on her first day of middle school.

When we arrived at school, Laurel commented that the eighth graders looked big and scary. I couldn’t disagree. In fact, Laurel suddenly looked very small to me, as she walked into the building all alone on her first day of middle school. I worried about her all day.

After school, I learned that Laurel had no academic records, and therefore no schedule, and no lunch account at the middle school, despite all my efforts to the contrary. “Don’t worry; it’ll all be sorted out by tomorrow,” Laurel assured me. But it wasn’t. For almost three days Laurel sat in the library (which she loved) while her classes began without her.

Now, I don’t mind telling you that I tend to be an overly prepared, extremely precise and efficient kind of person; unfortunately, I’m NOT extremely patient. So the school situation that first week drove me a little cray-cray – which is middle school speak for crazy. (I’m sure I'm not the only person in the world with this particular combination of…um, qualities. Mr. Carney, for example, probably totally understands my reaction.) I wanted everything sorted out immediately, and it would’ve been, if only I could’ve done the sorting! But I couldn't. I couldn’t provide Laurel’s academic records, since schools only accept academic records directly from other schools, and I couldn’t make Laurel a schedule, but the lunch account? Surely I could do something about her lunch account. I made a copy of the canceled check I had written for Laurel’s lunch account and sent it, along with a note, to school with Laurel the next morning.

When I picked Laurel up that afternoon, the first thing I said was, “Did your lunch account get straightened out today?” Laurel looked at me like she felt really sorry for me, and then, reluctantly admitted, “No, not yet, but…” I don’t remember what else was said – I might’ve blacked out a little. Laurel waited for me to calm down. When I finished my shrieky little rant, Laurel said, “Yes, I gave your note to the lady in the cafeteria, Mrs. Gilliam.” “Uh-huh…AND?” I demanded. “WHAT DID SHE SAY?” Laurel continued, “She said, ‘Honey, I know your mama paid; it’s just not in my computer system yet.’ Then Mrs. Gilliam took my hand, looked me in my eyes, and said, ‘Everything’s gonna be okay. Tell your mama.’” I thought about this message for a few minutes. Then, I took a deep breath, exhaled, and said, “Okay then.”

These are some of the wisest, most helpful words I’ve ever heard: “Everything’s gonna be okay. Tell your mama.”

So, these days, whenever my daughter and her friends worry aloud about starting high school, I say to them, “Everything’s gonna be okay. Tell your mama.”

And I say to you, where ever you are, whatever you are finishing or starting: Everything’s gonna be okay. Tell your mama. Also? It is never a good idea to trim your own bangs. (What? This is solid advice for anyone, anywhere, at any age. Believe me. I speak from experience. Okay, experiences.)

Finally, to the entire faculty and staff at Bate, especially my personal hero, Mrs. Gilliam, I say: Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Laurel has, without question, absolutely thrived in your care, and she has loved every minute of middle school – which I consider a small miracle!

Laurel as the big, scary eighth grader she is today (with her dog, Comfort, who is also BIG and SCARY as far as she's concerned).

The Work of My Hands

I come from a family of highly intelligent, highly educated, extremely hardworking and successful overachievers. So, naturally, I married an overachiever, and then gave birth to another overachiever. I have always been proud just to know these people, and prouder still to be able to call myself “daughter”, “granddaughter”, “niece”, “wife”, “mother”, “aunt”, or “sister” to them. And I have always wished I could return the favor, offering them a teensy, tiny little bit of pride in me.

But I chose to be a writer instead. (Writer: n. A person usually without discernable accomplishments or income, who often lives in his or her parents’ basement and borrows money.) I knew that my chances of ever becoming a published novelist were roughly the same as my chances of winning the lottery, and therefore, I knew that professionally, I would probably never inspire pride in anyone anywhere – not even in myself.

And I was right. I spent two and half years writing two novels that would never be published. But not only was I not proud of this, I felt deeply ashamed – and guilty – guilty, for wasting literally thousands of hours of time and effort that would’ve been better spent elsewhere.

So, I decided not to write anymore. That night, I said to God, “Okay. That’s it. I give up. I don’t know what I’m doing, so tell me what it is that you want me to do. I’ll do anything – dig graves, repair plumbing – whatever you want. Please, just tell me what you want me to do – and don’t be subtle – you know how dense I can be!”

The next morning, as my then ten-year-old daughter was getting ready for school, she said to me, “I really wish you’d write a book for people my age, so I could read it.”

I thought about this, and figured I didn’t have anything better to do while I waited for God to reveal that I was meant to be a plumber or something. So, I said, “Okay, I’ll try.”

After my daughter left for school, I sat down at my computer and did just that. I had no outline and no plan, but the words came anyway. About ten pages in, I realized I was having the most fun I’d ever had writing. The book I began that morning was called Something to Sing About, and the first publishing house I sent it to snapped it right up for publication.

I was so happy… and proud. I thought I’d finally found my place, and that life – at least my writing life – would be much, much easier after that.

But it wasn’t – life’s sort of an uphill battle, isn’t it? Just as my first novel went to press, my editor left the publishing house and the publishing industry altogether – placing me back at square one. But even so, I continued to work on my second middle grade novel.

Two more years passed, during which I wrote and rewrote, and tried not to worry – that I was a one-hit hack.

Now, as you may or may not know, my second middle grade novel, entitled Lula Bell on Geekdom, Freakdom & the Challenges of Bad Hair, recently – FINALLY! – sold to a publishing house. And once again, I felt happy…and proud.

But last Friday, I learned that a close friend had been diagnosed with cancer. I have been busy praying for my friend, Rick, ever since. Yesterday morning, I got out my prayer locket, to put Rick’s name in it and wear it – keeping my prayers close to my heart.

And do you know what I found in my prayer locket when I opened it? Inside was a little slip of paper which read only, Lula Bell.

So, it turns out that I am not accomplished, but blessed. And I have no right to feel proud – not ever – only grateful.

As if I needed additional proof, this afternoon, I came across the following passage in a beautiful book I received from a friend just this week (Thank you, Susan! I love it!): “And let the beauty of the Lord our God be upon us, and establish the work of our hands for us; yes, establish the work of our hands.” – Psalm 90:17

(What? Yes, of course, I have more than one friend! But I admit it is shocking – more proof that I am just blessed.)

So, I come to you today, humbled and grateful, wishing you the beauty of the Lord, all the joy and hope of Easter, and many, many blessings.

And I leave you with this quote from Eleanor Powell: "What we are is God's gift to us. What we become is our gift to God."

P.S. If it’s not too much to ask, please include my friend, Rick, in your prayers.

Livin' the Dream

If you read my blog regularly, then you know that after precisely fifty-four bazillion rewrites, my second middle grade novel, Lula Bell on Geekdom, Freakdom & the Challenges of Bad Hair, FINALLY found a publishing home – yippeeee!

What you probably don’t know is that more than one publishing house offered Lula Bell…a home – and I am so grateful to each and every one of them. That said, multiple offers do slow the process down, as each offer must be carefully considered – there’s a lot more than money to consider – trying to find the right long-term editor is like trying to find the right guy! Luckily, my wonderful literary agent, Emily van Beek, knew exactly how to handle things, and she did – beautifully.

So there wasn’t much for me to do except wait. I am a terrible, terrible waiter. I worry. I doubt. I begin to think things like, All of these editors are going to come to their senses and realize that I would do this work for free, that I have been doing this work for free, just for fun, and then they’re all going to take their offers and go home – and my literary agent, not to mention my family, is going to be sooo disappointed! That's what I really thought. But there just wasn’t a thing I could do about it. Even so, I had to do something.

So, I scrubbed our kitchen from top to bottom,

(Look, Mom! No crumbs!)

cleaned out the refrig and the oven,

reorganized our gift-wrapping stuff,

(Yes, that is used tissue paper. I am both neat AND cheap!)

reorganized my closet by both color AND season,

(OCD much?)

and made a meatloaf – and I don’t even like meatloaf – still. (Face it: Meatloaf's not much to look at... or to eat, come to think of it.)

Finally, my daughter said to me, “Gosh, Mama, is this how you celebrate?” That’s right: I’m livin’ the dream, baby! I’m livin’ the dream!

May you find yourself livin’ the dream, too – and may it involve absolutely no cleaning and no meatloaf whatsoever!

I’m actually looking forward to more rewrites now – and we’ll eat out!

A Heaping Helping of Thanks

My second middle-grade novel, Lula Bell on Geekdom, Freakdom & the Challenges of Bad Hair, has been sold and will be published by Marshall Cavendish (http://www.marshallcavendish.com/) in 2012! Hallelujah!

It’s been a long, uphill climb – sometimes crawl – and although a great many people pushed, pulled, and otherwise helped me up the hill (Hi, Mom!) there are seven people without whom this novel never would’ve been published. (I’m not being generous here. It’s a fact.)

My husband, Mark, deserves credit for every book I write, because before he came along, it never once occurred to me that anyone – other than my closest blood relatives – might be willing, much less interested, to read my writing. Without Mark, I wouldn’t have dared to write any books at all. (And at this point, Mark probably wishes I hadn’t, because he’s forced to read and re-read every manuscript I write, over and over again! Sorry, honey – and thanks!)

Likewise, if my daughter, Laurel, had never said to me, “Well, I sure wish you’d write a book for people my age, so that I could read it…” I never would’ve even tried, never would’ve found my place writing middle-grade fiction. (Yes, she is also forced to read for me over and over again. The only difference with her is that I sit in a chair and stare at her while she reads my stuff – Mark would never allow this – actually, I would never allow this…okay, okay, no one else on earth would ever allow this! Laurel, you’re such a sweetie pie!!! THANK YOU!)

This particular middle grade novel proved especially difficult – probably because I was trying to share such a personal story – and I reached a point where I knew, absolutely knew, that writing it had been a complete waste of time. It wasn’t salvageable. I had nothing. Frustrated and upset, I, naturally, turned to the best, most brilliant writer I know: my father.

My father read the manuscript, three times, and then stayed up all night with me one night, talking the manuscript over page by page. I did everything he suggested, and it helped immensely, but still didn’t seem like quite enough.

Having worn my dad down, no doubt, he then passed me off to my sister, Sarah, who was impossibly patient, who read and re-read, and whose ideas I exploited shamelessly. (I am absolutely certain that deep down inside, Sarah is a writer; she’s a writer’s writer.)

If the book wasn’t publishable at that point…well, thanks to my father and sister, at least the manuscript had enough publishing potential that editor extraordinaire Kara LaReau was willing to lend a hand.

It is largely thanks to Kara’s belief in Lula Bell that literary agent Emily van Beek then joined Team Lula Bell. Together, Emily and I worked and reworked this manuscript, taking it apart, asking tough questions, and putting it back together again. When we were finally finished, Emily worked some more, to get Lula Bell into just the right hands – the most capable hands I can imagine: those of editor Melanie Kroupa at Marshall Cavendish.

So, a great big heaping helping of thanks, banana pudding, key-lime cookies, chocolate pies, ginger snaps, red velvet cupcakes, homemade toffee, and all the very best sweets, to my husband, my daughter, my father, my sister, Kara LaReau, Emily van Beek, and Melanie Kroupa! (I really think that thanks should be edible, don’t you?)

THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANK YOU! MWAH! MWAH!

Kitchen Dancing

This is what we, in the Payne family, call “kitchen dancing”. It happens some nights, after dinner. (Yes, I know: Our neighbors just don’t know how lucky they are that we have invested in window coverings! Please keep this in mind, neighbors, when our grass is a little too long, or we haven’t watered as we should have. Say to yourselves, “Well, at least the Paynes have window coverings!” Then, look away from the landscaping, and try some deep breathing exercises. Repeat as necessary. You’re welcome.)

My teenage daughter is trying to teach me a Shakira dance here. And I am – hilariously, apparently – trying to learn it.

My new year’s resolution? More joy, more celebration, more kitchen dancing! And that is what I wish for you, too.

Happy New Year, friends!