Down to the sea

After John 6:1-21 

Down to the sea we went,

down to the shore

down to the sea to sail,

to sail to Capernaum once more.

 

Dark it was, and stormy,

waves crashing at our ship;

we rowed against the waves and wind,

expecting we would flip.

 

Waves were smashing, winds were thrashing,

as misery gives way to fear,

and then we see him walking

on the sea, drawing near.

 

Do not be afraid, he says,

as he steps into the boat;

the winds die down, the waves subside,

once again we’re gently afloat.

 

Photograph by Forrest Moreland via Unsplash. Used with permission.

Some Friday Readings

 

Lord of Earth, Thy Forming Hand – poem by Robert Grant at Kingdom Poets (D.S. Martin).

 

The Death Culture of the UK – Stephen McAlpine.

 

O For a Closer Walk with God, by William Cowper – Anthony Esolen at Word & Song.

 

Divine Epigrams by Richard Crashaw – Sally Thomas at Poems Ancient and Modern.

The best intentions

After Matthew 14:22-33 

At first, a ghost, they think

until recognition kicks in.

No ghost, but the one

they follow, walking

across the stormy sea.

Hothead as he always is,

leader that he will become,

he says command me

to come to you, and hearing

the words, begins to walk.

But the storm, the waves,

the howling winds evoke

fear, and he’s sinking,

intentions forgotten,

sinking into the depths

as he cries out to be

saved. The one grasps

him by the hand and

pulls him to the boat,

and the waves calm,

the winds die down.

The picture of salvation

is painted.

 

Photograph by Tom Verdoot via Unsplash. Used with permission.

Storm on the lake

After Matthew 14:22-33 

The thousands fed,

he craves solitude;

miracles tend to do that.

 

The disciples sent

to go before him

to the other side.

 

The storm upon the lake

arises, fierce winds,

raging waves, disciples trapped.

 

They are frightened

by the storm, and worse

mistake rescue for a ghost

 

As he walks towards them

on water, a solitary figure,

shining in white light,

 

Saying take heart, it’s I,

do not be afraid.

 

Photograph by Jasper Garratt via Unsplash. Used with permission.

A poem and a post at Literary Life

I have two features at Literary Life today.

One is a poem, "Imago Dei," that helps to introduce Literary Life's book feature in September, Madeleine L'Engle's Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art. The poem is inspired by this statement by L'Engle: "If the work comes to the artist and says, "here I am, serve me," then the job of the artist, great or small, is to serve." The poem provides a little (poetic) explanation of the origin of a critical scene in my novel Dancing King. You can read "Imago Dei" here.

The second feature is post on fiction, "Finding Faulkner via Mexico and Peru." I never read William Faulkner until my mid-30s, and here I was, a born-and-raised Southerner. I discovered Faulkner after reading Conversation in the Cathedral by Mario Vargas Llosa and novels by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Carlos Fuentes, and other Latin American writers. You can read the post at Literary Life here.

The Fourth Manuscript

I was talking with my oldest son, who had asked copies of Dancing Priest and A Light Shining for a promotion he’s trying.

“So,” he asked, “if I understand all of this, you’re working on a non-fiction book right now?”

“Correct,” I said. I told him what it was about. The manuscript is due to the publisher in July.

“Well, is there going to be a third volume in the Michael Kent saga?”

“I’ll figure it out in July,” I said, “after I turn the non-fiction manuscript in. There is a manuscript for the third volume, but it needs work.”

I was silent for a moment and then said, “And then there’s the fourth book. That manuscript is largely completed. And it’s the one that’s the most personal.” I paused, “And I think it’s the best. There’s one character in it that I identify with.”

I didn’t mean for that to happen. And it began with a bike ride.

When I started biking in 2004, I mostly biked around our suburb of St. Louis. I gradually started taking longer rides, finding back streets to get to Grant’s Trail, a nice long stretch of several miles.

And then the trail was extended to about a mile south of my house. A few minutes on the bike, and I could start a 20-mile roundtrip. It was great.

The route to the trailhead took me past an aging apartment complex – eight or so brick buildings of eight units each. I rarely paid attention to the apartments, focused more on the hill I had to descend (or ascend, on the way back) alongside the complex.

This was the complex where police found Michael Devlin, a man who had kidnapped a 12-year-boy in a rural area near St. Louis. They also found a 16-year-old boy – who had been missing for four years. He had been kidnapped, too.

The news sent shock waves from our little suburb across the country. Film crews arrived. City fathers were mortified at the bad publicity.

I was horrified. This was the place I rode my bike past nearly every day, weather permitting. While I couldn’t have expected to know what was happening there, my reaction was profound, and deep, and I can’t really explain why.

I started writing. I literally wrote out my reaction in the form of a story. One character inserted himself, and ended up playing a critical role in the story.

When I reread the manuscript, I realized what I had done. I had written myself into the story, and I didn’t realize it until I had finished the draft. He had burst unexpectedly from my head and my heart.

In Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art, Madeleine L’Engle explains very succinctly what happened to me as I wrote that story and created that character: “In the act of creativity,” she says, “the artist let’s go the self-control he normally clings to, and is open to riding the wind.”

I don’t know if that particular wind will ever see the light of publication, but I do think it’s one of the best stories I’ve written. 

A Tale of 2 Books, and 2 More

Sometimes I pick up an older book (defined as something published over the last 40 years) to see how well it’s stood the test of time. I’m not talking about books considered classics, but those that are something less than classics but well received by critics and reads at the time. How well do they age?

If the book is Paul Ehrlich’s Population Bomb, the answer is not very well. A best-seller in the early 1970s, it predicted imminent disaster because of population growth. The disaster didn’t happen. Few disasters predicted in books come to pass. Very few.

I’ve been reading Madeleine L’Engle’s Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art, first published in 1980 (my edition is dated 1995). The book appeared long before the internet, social media, web sites, blogs, cell phones (not to mention smart phones) and every other communication medium and device we consider indispensable. The essays were loosely based on a series of lectures she gave at a university. It was her close friend and poet Luci Shaw who urged L’Engle to turn the lectures into essays.

The book has aged very well indeed. L’Engle speaks to concerns that transcend time – writing, art, creativity, faith, inspiration. All of the questions she raises are as pertinent today as they were 30 years ago. So are her answersAnd her prose, clean and concise as it is, sounds contemporary. (This book, by the way, is filled with great quotations, both her own and those by others; I’d share some but I’m going to use them.) (Buy your own copy.)

Another book that’s aged well is Sleeping Preacher: Poems by Julia Kasdorf, first published in 1992. Poetry (in theory) might be less prone to becoming dated, but poetry has its fashions and styles as much as any other kind of writing. It wasn’t that long ago when prose poems were all the rage.

I suspect one reason for Sleeping Preacher aging well is Kasdorf’s subjects and themes – the Mennonite community she grew up in and eventually left in Pennsylvania. Change comes slowly to these communities, and her poems seek out the timeless, the valuable, the things of memory and the things that matter. The writing is clear, the words sharp – and both clarity and sharpness are never out of style.

And then we have two contemporary books purchased with anticipation, almost eagerness.

One was by a favorite author, a writer of mystery and suspense who has written a series of books about a detective (that’s even been a television series). And then – disappointment, expectations crashingly disappointed. The writing was fine – but after 14 pages of gradual buildup about what was obviously the murder of a young child, I stopped, closed the book and said no, not interested. The world is filled with enough ugliness and horror; I don’t need more, even in fiction.

The second was a collection short stories, rather celebrated and even recipient of a literary prize or two. I managed my way through three stories. The writing was precise and spare. But the stories (which the cover and the blurb on Amazon neglect to mention) are all about sex. I stopped with the one on wife-swapping. Sorry, not interested. Yes, I’m an old-fashioned cretin. Some is okay but don’t give me a book that suggests life is all about sex and nothing else. And I’m not interested in upper-middle-class people indulging their whims and fancies. The only thing worse is a story or novel about academic types indulging their whims and fancies.

I set that book aside, and pulled the L’Engle book from the shelf. I was glad I did.