To my lifelong friend currently living in London

SJF:

Today I strapped dear Delia into her stroller and strode straight to the park where you and I used to play. Only this time, instead of staying near the slides, swings and things, I kept going, all the way to the west side where we used to crawl under the fence to get in. I checked: Both fence holes are filled (the one behind my parents' house and the one behind "the crazy people's").

The mounds of dirt are also gone -- the ones where you used to dig so daintily, poking the ground with a carefully selected stick, and where I -- I savagely scratched the soil like a primitive primate, always returning to my mother looking like the proud maker of mud pies that I was.

Prowling the perimeter of the park today (30+ years since we claimed it as ours), I peered through the vine-covered fence to find the neighbors' yards altered by the decades. The tidy half-acre of lush lawn Mr. and Mrs. Y used to prune so fastidiously is now patchy and brown, guarded by two menacing dogs.

The woods remain, where we fancied ourselves budding Thoreaus, concocting codes and composing poems about ethereal aspirations, sibling rivalries, and the fragrant violets that carpeted the ground by our "treehouse" in early spring. The walkways are overgrown. And a rusty swingset stands in the middle of the plot, perpendicular to Mrs. Jones' swimming pool (which, by the way, is gone, too -- but at least that old swingset is there, a monument of our childhood).

The saddest part about my park adventure, aside from the ache that accompanies nostalgia, was the absence of any children at the park on this sunny, almost-summer afternoon. "Where are they?" I wondered. "Watching TV," was my gut guess. Gut-wrenching.

But then, a hopeful discovery: Raspberry vines, on the south side, by the woods! The fruit is green, but it should ripen in two or three weeks' time, when I will return to the park and think of you, my beloved friend.

Much love,
Marsha Grace

A tilt-a-whirly-gig, push and shove (“Get outta my way! I was here first!”) toward the Truth about this apple-pie-American quagmire of a holiday: Mother’s Day

I realize that these reflections barely scratch the surface of the depth of emotions contained in the calendar block dedicated to the celebration of maternity. But, like so much of what I do as a mother, I’m left to say: “At least it’s something.” An acknowledgement that it’s not entirely happy — not for me, not for other mothers, not for non-mothers, and not for all children of mothers (grown-up kids included). But like all other days, it is redeemable. Just like the recipients of the roses.

Mother’s Day could be called ‘the best and worst’ of holidays:

Joyous for some, injurious for others —

Sometimes both, depending on which moment.

A day to celebrate all the wonderful things that motherhood is,

A day to grieve all the A-B-C...X-Y-Z things that motherhood is not.

For one thing: The fact that not all mothers are wonderful.

(And even the wonderful ones aren’t always.)

For another thing: Motherhood itself is not always all it’s cracked up to be.

It’s not always dandelion bouquets and butterscotch pudding kisses and

footie pajamas on freshly bathed piggy-toes that fit in the palm of your hand.

It’s usually not.

For some, motherhood is simply not —

or, at least, not yet…

despite the deep, deep yearnings

of a would-be mother’s heart.

No, Mother’s Day is not just a day for

a dozen roses and breakfast in bed.

It’s also a day that presents

awkward dilemmas,

mournful memories,

bitter regrets,

and ‘hope deferred [that]

makes the heart sick.’

(a loathsome laundry list of human emotions)

The only purely good thing about Mother’s Day is

the same thing that is purely good about mothers:

The One who made us.

The same Truth that sweetens, redeems and buoys

every other day of the year

can also carry all God’s children through Mother’s Day,

with its delights, terrors and tears…

Bearing even better comfort than a hug and a kiss and

a Band-Aid on a scraped knee.

Thank you, Jesus (and I love you, Mommy) —

Amen.


Jabba pudding cup image from:
http://www.mycreativestirrings.com/2010/12/star-wars-kid-birthday-party-picture.html

Feasting on words, flossing with friends: An overdue, overwritten account of my beloved FFW

I told myself I would report on the Festival by Friday, and here it is Sunday—late again! Plus, the pressure is on to post in time to start Screen-Free Week, a national excuse to trade TV- and computer-staring for face-time with family and friends. Tom and I will have to do work stuff at our computers, but I, at least, am going to try to steer clear of social networking sites, blogs, Craigslist, and the like. (Who says “and the like”? One of my seminary profs… which one..?—8 hours later, I remember: Dr. Wayne McCown!)

The thing about the Festival of Faith & Writing is that it really should be called the FEAST-ival of Faith and Writing. And like any banquet of gourmet dishes and delectable morsels, it takes time to digest — maybe months. But here I am, 5 days gone and 5 6 7 days back and I feel obliged to give some account to my readers and myself about what went on among the trees and the tulips of middle Michigan.

Like last time, I went in cold. I had read almost none of the featured authors’ works (even though, unlike last time, I had plenty of advance notice and even more good intentions about preparing for the event). Also like last time, I feel ill-prepared to reflect on the event overall. My fellow Festival attendees Holly Jennings and John Wilson have encapsulated the event with success and good humor.  (Or how about this blogger—talk about encapsulating! She boiled it down to 319 words. If you want my short version, read to the end of the next paragraph and stop. That’s 356.)

I will endeavor to follow the best advice I received during the Festival: Just Do It! Create time to write—schedule it!—and write with as much honesty as you can muster. Worry about the onerous questions later, like whether or not to pursue publication, and whether or not anyone will ever read the words I labor to compose. The main message I heard with my whole heart was: “Write! Write your stories! You’re the only one who can!”

But before I do, I will share a few jots from my FFW notebook… These drawn-out blatherings call to mind Blaise Pascal’s apology: “I would have written a shorter letter but didn’t have time.” I would prefer to be pithy, but I’m rushed as usual. I rely on your good graces and skimming skills.

THURSDAY, APRIL 19

10:00 – 10:20 a.m. Chapel Service - Luci Shaw

Luci is simply lovely—lovely and strong. Best friend of the late Madeleine L’Engle. I don’t consider myself much of a “poetry person” (I often don’t “get” it)—except when someone like Luci is reading her artwork of words aloud to me. Then I don’t see how anyone—not even a person as dense and unsophisticated as I am—could fail to revel in the beauty of her genre.

10:30 – 11:15 a.m. Festival Sampler - Aaron Belz, Kathryn Erskine, Amy Frykholm, Bethany Pierce, Jana Riess, Judith Shulevitz

Of these writers who read excerpts of their work to prime the pump of our time together—surprise!—I “got” another poet, Aaron Belz. His hilarious ruminations about worms and ectoplasm can be found on my friend Holly’s blog. The other writers were good, too. But it all happened so fast that I can only remember snippets of their stories, now separated from their sources in my overstuffed brain…

The girl who climbed the tree to impress her father; the girl who dated a boy who punched her in the face in front of everyone at a school swim meet; the woman who drank beer before driving her children to synagogue; the woman who tried—and failed miserably—to reenact the lives of the saints (I think that was Riess, whose lecture I attended later the same day).

12:00 – 1:15 p.m. “Where the Servants Dwell” - Gary Schmidt

Unfortunately, I did not take notes at this plenary session. I bet you could find a review on the Calvin website, among the student publications, since Schmidt is a Calvin prof.

1:45 – 2:45 p.m. “Memoir Is Cheaper Than Therapy: Laughing at Your Life” - Jana Riess

This session was interesting but ill-named, I thought. It was much more poignant than funny, plus someone in the line to the ladies’ room was rude to me just beforehand. Her mean spirit cast a shadow on my enjoyment of this talk. (Yes, really. I know, I know—I need to let things roll off!)

The thing I remember most was Riess’ account of a mother and daughter on the mother’s death bed. The elder bequeathed all of her personal journals to the younger, who, after a period of mourning, very much looked forward to reuniting with her mother through the written word. The daughter found a large collection of journals on the bookshelf her mother had specified. But when she opened them, one after another after another, she found them all blank. The lesson (I think) was: Don’t let this happen to you or your family. Fill your journals for the good of your loved ones.

2:45 – 3:15 p.m. coffee break - The lines for coffee and snacks were much too long, and the coffee was mediocre.

3:15 – 4:15 p.m. “Write Your Life”- Susan E. Isaacs

Maybe the most beneficial session for me at the whole Festival. Isaacs encouraged—urged us, really—to write the stories of our lives that we feel compelled to write, regardless of the potential for publication or profit. I liked her so much that I switched my plans to attend another session she was leading.

This session was part lecture, part workshop, and I came away with a partial game plan for writing a particular story (a book, perhaps?—I’ll worry about that later). I have in mind to get it written between now and the next Festival (Spring 2014—a ways off, but Isaacs encouraged us to keep our writing goals realistic).

4:30 – 5:30 p.m. “Telling the Truth in Love: The Tricky Bits of Writing Memoir” - Amy Julia Becker, Jennifer Grant, Margot Starbuck

Also interesting, but the room was too full and my seat was an awkward perch on the window sill. I found it difficult to pay attention while my butt went numb. Generally, I preferred the sessions with just one speaker, rather than the panel setting. (Duly noted for future Festivals. And boy-do-I-ever plan to return!)

7:30 – 8:30 p.m. “Reading Between the Lines” - Jonathan Safran Foer

I found the author of Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close extremely handsome and incredibly smart...and surprisingly young! (Any published author younger than I am surprises me, I suppose. I am getting to “that age.”) He spoke with ease, told lots of stories, and held the attention of the audience admirably (and not only because of his good looks). The thing I remember most about what he said was that he wished he had put more effort into nurturing his relationship with his mentor, who died before Foer was ready to let him go. Not everyone can be as brilliant and successful as this young man, but we all can pay attention to the relationships that matter most to us—and endeavor not to neglect them.

9:00 – 9:45 p.m. Redbud Writers’ Guild reception

We crashed the party and met some cool writer-people. A tall urbanite wearing a black dress and carrying a cocktail introduced herself and asked, “What do you write?” My mind whirred and my cheeks burned as I blurted, “Fundraising letters!” No sense pretending otherwise. She stayed and chatted awhile anyway.

In the hallway, I happened upon Books & Culture Editor John Wilson, who once graciously gave me a tour of the Christianity Today offices and took me out to lunch with his then-colleague Doug LeBlanc. At that same meeting (it was the summer of 2011—I remember for reasons I’ll share in a minute), Mr. Wilson recommended Frederica Mathewes-Green to me. He said he thought I’d like her work, based on the conversation we were having about faith explorations and different facets of the Church.

Fast-forward 11 years and I find myself searching for a speaker for my pregnancy center fundraising dinner (for next March—I plan ahead…with some things). Who did I book for the gig last week but Frederica Mathewes-Green, author of Real Choices: Listening to Women, Looking for Alternatives to Abortion. I told Mr. Wilson about the connection; he said he was delighted. He also assured me that I won’t be disappointed by Frederica’s visit next March; I believe him.

The reason I remember exactly when I met Mr. Wilson was that it was only about a month before 9/11. Over lunch, I discussed the cover image of the upcoming issue of Roberts Today magazine with Mr. Wilson. I wanted a jaunty image from the women’s basketball trip to Puerto Rico, but the College higher-ups deemed it too edgy. That debate proved moot when the day before we went to press, 9/11 happened, and like every other media source in America, our mock-ups and publication plans were rendered irrelevant. I also remember checking myself onto the plane in Chicago, with very little restriction. When the jolting events of That Day occurred so soon afterward, I thought back to the light security of my travel and thought, “Never gonna be like that again!” And shuddered.

FRIDAY, APRIL 20

8:30 – 9:30 a.m. “Patient Poets: Writing and Healing” - Marilyn Chandler McEntyre

Another excellent session, in which McEntyre read us several poems of patients with chronic pain, illness or terminal diagnoses. Talk about stripping away pretense and conjecture, life-or-death situations sure do that. Utterly, poignantly exquisite.

9:30 – 10:00 a.m. coffee break (blech)

10:00 – 11:00 a.m. “Grumblings, Angry Conversations, and Sad, Sad Songs: The Art and Joy of the Lament” - Gregg DeMey, Susan E. Isaacs, Caryn Dahlstrand Rivadeneira

A memorable psalm written by one of the panelists, Gregg DeMey. Anytime there’s corporate singing among strangers, it’s good. Susan Isaacs skillfully shared a comedic sketch that was actually an autobiographical lament from her own life. Selah

11:30 a.m. – 12:30 p.m. “Lies, Whitewashes, and Cover-ups: Dealing in Memoir with Pain and Painful People” - Daniel Taylor

Taylor is a retired professor from Bethel College(or University?) in Minnesota. He read us some of his own stories—the best presentations were the ones where writers read to us from their work—and shared some memorable reflections about his mother’s disappearance into senility and his father’s mixed legacy of charisma and infidelity.

The part of Taylor’s message that “stuck”: Be more gracious than the ‘painful people’ in your life deserve, both for the benefit of yourself as a writer with a soul, and for the benefit of your readers, who will not appreciate your condemnation of another human being.

12:30 – 2:00 p.m. lunch break

2:00 – 3:00 p.m. Living Fully: A Conversation with Ann Voskamp

I have several friends who earnestly adore Ann Voskamp’s blog, called A Holy Experience, and now her book, One Thousand Gifts. In fact, it was my cousin Nina, with whom I attended the Festival in 2010, who first introduced me to Voskamp. She thought I would love her. For reasons I couldn’t quite articulate until I heard her speak at this Festival, I didn’t. I still don’t, although in the spirit of Daniel Taylor I will be as gracious as possible when I tell you the reason I didn’t/don’t care for Voskamp’s writing: She’s breathy. Her writing voice is breathy, and so is her actual speech. I find it hard to relate to her, maybe because I’m just a homegrown girl from A-Town who doesn’t “get” poems and prose that ‘reaches for the sky’ (that’s the sort of phrase I think she’d use). And the truth is I’m just a little bit cynical. Nevertheless, I found I liked Voskamp more and more as her interview went on, mainly because, even though she doesn’t seem like “my kind of gal,” she does seem sincere and humble, and genuinely uncomfortable with the hoopla surrounding her persona. When someone from the audience asked how she is coping with her newfound Christian celebrity, Voskamp clearly appeared to be scanning the floor for a trap door to crawl into.

3:00 – 3:30 p.m. coffee break

3:30 – 4:30 p.m. “Paying Ferocious Attention” - Brian Doyle

I remember this guy! My Festival friend and roomie Eileen Button had done her homework before the event, and she highly recommended that Holly and I attend at least one of Brian Doyle’s talks. As soon as he was introduced, I recognized him as the dynamic editor of Portland magazine, the alumni publication of a Catholic university in that northwest city. I had heard him speak (and was favorably impressed) in 2002 or 2003, when I attended the Editors’ Forum for college and university publication people (of which I was one at the time).

So engaged was I by Mr. Doyle that my notes from this session are sparse. I remember that he said he and his friends had discussed their future epitaphs and the best he could imagine for himself was: Brian Doyle, “Not a Bad Dad.” His kids are important to him, which makes him a winner in my book. But he also expressed very passionately his belief that people, in general, are important, and that our calling as writers is to pay attention to people’s lives and share the goodness we find in them, using whatever tools we have as our disposal. For Brian Doyle, it is his magazine, and I think he has written a book or three.

Mostly, Mr. Doyle reminded me of my husband Tom, who with similar enthusiasm seeks out people’s stories—those of the underdogs and “everyday heroes” are his favorites—and shares them for the benefit of all who will read them. This is a good mission in life.

7:30 – 8:30 p.m. “Casting Out Fear” - Marilynne Robinson

Ms. Robinson’s much-ballyhooed talk disappointed me for reasons my Festival companion Holly articulated very well in her blog.

SATURDAY, APRIL 21

8:30 – 9:30 a.m.

Took a much-needed “Skip” to sleep in, pack up, check out of hotel and gas up vehicle for trip home (by way of Monroe, to visit my Aunt Velma).

9:30 – 10:00 a.m. coffee break

10:00 – 11:00 a.m. “Alive in the World: Stories of God's Revolution” - Shane Claiborne

I took the most notes for this one at Eileen’s request (since she had to teach all day Sat and couldn’t stay for the final day). However, because this is already very verbose, and since I am anxious to finish, and since I can scan and email my notes to Eileen, I’ll sum up:

Shane Claiborne: Dreadlocks, righteous dude, livin’ the life—of poverty, self-sacrifice and service, that is. Intriguing, inspiring, challenging. When he was first getting started, Shane went to Calcutta to find out how Mother Teresa “lived the life” and she told him (or maybe she is known widely for saying this—I don’t know, but it stuck):

You don’t have to go to Calcutta to find Calcutta. There are Calcuttas everywhere—find yours, and serve.

11:30 a.m. – 12:30 p.m. “Tensions of Voice and Style” - Larry Woiwode

I’ve been told various times over the years that I have a strong voice in my writing. I kind of understand what this means, but I thought I’d go hear an expert confirm or debunk my definition. Mr. Woiwode called voice and style synonymous. He said that asking for advice to develop a style is akin to asking for advice about how to develop another frontal lobe. Your voice is an imprint of your personality on everything you do or say. His best advice was to be ourselves when we write. He said: “You must speak to the deepest and most reliable truth within you.” Simple, right?

12:30 – 2:00 p.m. lunch break (I shopped for souvenirs and made arrangements to visit Aunt Velma)

2:00 – 3:00 p.m. “Surrender Your Treasures, Discover Your Story” - Richard Jesse Watson

I went to hear Richard Jesse Watson somewhat on a whim. I heard the voice of wisdom from the liberal arts advocates of my past telling me to try something “different,” outside the realm of the familiar or comfortable. Since I am no artist, attending the talk of a children’s book illustrator seemed to suit this goal. I was rewarded richly. Mr. Watson, though I found out he is quite famous, especially among evangelicals, spoke with understated ease about his impressive successes. He told how he loved art too much and therefore relinquished it for several years, until God gave it back to him, and he reluctantly resumed, with breathtaking results. He showed us screen after screen of his imaginative and tender illustrations, and I praised God for this gift. (I also made a mental note to seek out RJW’s books for future gift-giving occasions.)

3:00 – 3:30 p.m.  coffee break

3:30 – 4:30 p.m.  “The Beloved (Writing) Community” - Bromleigh McCleneghan, Jennifer Moland-Kovash, Katherine Willis Pershey, Erica Schemper

This group of four clergywomen living and ministering in Chicagoland gathers monthly to critique each other’s writing and spur each other on to publication…or whatever goals each has for practicing and improving her craft. I am totally jealous! Try as I might, I can’t fathom a feasible scenario for forming such a group in…um, “Albionland”? Even if I extend the geographical concept to include Rochester and its suburbs, the logistics are daunting. (Heck, the logistics are daunting for me to do much of anything outside the demands of work and family.) Nevertheless, I hold out hope that I might be part of this kind of fellowship—someday, somehow…

Could beeeeee… Who knowwwws?...

It’s only just out of reach / Down the block / On a beach, Under a tree.

I got a feelin’ there’s a miracle due / Gonna come true / Comin’ to me!

(Bernstein & Sondheim, West Side Story)

In fact, the whole Festival renewed my sense of hope—in myself, in the communion of saints, and of course, in God, the Giver of dreams, of creativity, of life itself.

Other fond memories to note:

- Much striding about campus—refreshing, if a bit brisk on the day I left my jacket back at the hotel.

- Communal teeth-flossing in the car with my Festival companions. I’m a fan of friends, and a fan of floss—fun combo.

- Borrowing Eileen’s creaky curling iron. It needs a new spring. Or rather, she needs a new curling iron. She’s such a frugal flibbertigibbet (in the wonderful, whimsical sense of the word)—I love her!

- Talking, talking, talking…and sharing some companionable silence (I was proud of myself for not talking the whole time) with Holly, who joined me for the journey.

- Embracing Gloria, the woman in the sky—that is, my parents’ Garmin GPS device. This was my first time using one as the driver on a long trip. I now see why my father says he’s “a little bit in love with her.”

A prayer of dare from a freshly detoxicated stress addict

Being on retreat is like rehab for stress junkies. Hello, my name is Marsha, I'm a stressaholic, and my retreat is the Festival of Faith & Writing at Calvin College in Grand Rapids, Michigan.

A few days in the presence of graceful words, kindred spirits, and a packed-but-predetermined schedule (or, perhaps here at Calvin, "predestined") and I feel strong, capable, confident, optimistic, certain to become the wise and wonderful person I've always wanted to be.

Oh, let it be! May it be so!

(Or at least let this feeling linger longer than the pessimistic person I left behind in A-Town would have dared to hope.)

Amen.


Pretty picture by a stranger, likewise inspired by this gathering: http://jscottmc.wordpress.com/tag/calvin-college/