I was to them like those who lift infants to their cheeks.
Hosea 11:4 (NRSV)
Not everyone is a baby person. But for those who are, there’s something about a baby cheek. You want to stroke it. You want to plump it with a fingertip to see whether you can prompt a smile. You want to go cheek to cheek with it.
Those sweet interactions are tender and lovely, and totally unnecessary.
You can take excellent care of a baby’s needs without ever lifting them to your cheek. You can protect, feed, clothe, diaper, rock, walk, read, and talk with a baby, all with great love, without ever going cheek to cheek. You can enjoy a baby’s cuteness, exclaim over its chubbiness or its little elfin face without craving the feel of that velvety new skin against yours.
But a baby person can’t.
And here’s the thing: in this verse, God reveals himself as a baby person.
The Bible is full of the giant, impressive deeds of God, and they are awesome. When the Bible speaks of the love God has for us, it’s most often in terms of how he saves his children, how he protects them, feeds them, gives them good things.
All those things are true, but God-the-baby-person also craves those moments of tender connection with us, his babies, of celebrating our sweet neediness, of soothing our fussiness by bringing us right up to his face and cooing to us.
If you, like me, could use a little tenderness these days, imagine yourself as that baby that God just can’t wait to go cheek to cheek with. Because that’s who you are: a baby who doesn’t have to do anything to inspire this except for exist. And the creator of the universe can’t wait to bring you to his face and delight in you.
Image found here: http://www.morguefile.com/archive/display/167368
It wasn’t the oldest tree in the forest, but it had over twenty years of growth. It was the mightiest tree I’d ever been a part of growing.
It was my marriage. Which has ended.
In so many ways, it was a great and strong marriage with deep roots in shared backgrounds, faith, values, creativity, and parenting. We lived so much of what we’d vowed twenty-one years ago.
But like many trees that look strong but fall down anyway, there was a problem at the core. A hollowness that weakened the tree where nobody else could see it. A secret grief that the tree knew was there, but didn’t know the extent of, so attempts to fix it couldn’t succeed.
This makes it sound all nice and natural and inevitable, but the truth is that it’s horrible and sad. A mighty tree has been ripped from the ground that nurtured it: it has died.
I draw encouragement from the forest, where trees, both mighty and new, fall all the time.
Those trees do not fall in vain. Forest creatures use them for shelter and find food in them.
They break down and provide nutrients for growing plants.
I could say something about hoping that I will still shelter, feed, and even nurture new growth, but I don’t have the energy for that. I am still in the midst of the grieving and anxiety. The detritus that got kicked up hasn’t settled yet.
* * * *
Even in the midst of this, there is good news. The publishing company known as West Olive Press made its crowd funding goal for As Real As It Gets, so our illustrator, Joel Schoon-Tanis, will get to painting and we’ll publish our picture book next year. And I found out yesterday that I got a writing job (part-time for now, hopefully full-time to come).
I’m doing a lot of just taking the next step without trying to look into the future, which is unusual for me, because the future hasn’t been sullied by reality yet, so it’s fun to imagine.
Here’s to taking the next step, even in the midst of grief and anxiety.
[This is the story I wrote for Heat Two, Round One of the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction contest. It got me 7th place in my group, which added to my earlier 2nd place, and I got through to the next round for the first time. My prompts: it had to be a romantic comedy that took place in an orchestra pit and involved a spider.]
The Spider and the Fly Art by Tony DiTerlizzi
Mateo was being lowered to me. The orchestra pit was dark. My violin made the only sound.
Our opening move, with him lifting my limp body out of the pit, seemingly with one arm, was my favorite. The way his bicep hardened as if he really were holding me by his own power was delicious.
As I reached the adagio section, I looked up, right into two dinner-plate-sized bulbous black eyes flanked by four soup-bowl-deep eyes that flashed iridescent green and blue. I was as mesmerized as the script called for me to be.
The giant spider glided down, its fangs pointed right at me.
My bow skittered across the strings and out of my hand. Still, I didn’t move until the beast tilted and I could distinguish the man underneath the costume.
“Leila?” He sounded both concerned and amused.
“Eight years with Cirque and I never dropped my bow.” I picked it up and pointed it at him. “Never.” I yelled, “Francesca, you’re a cruel genius.”
There was a “whoop” from the auditorium before the director’s voice came over the P.A. “From the top. Just mark it.”
Take two wasn’t much better. I managed to hold onto my bow and get into position for him to hook the harness around me. Every time the spider legs bounced against me, it took every ounce of discipline I had not to curl up in a ball.
Even after I transferred onto the silks, I remained stiff and wary. There was no playfulness, no seduction between us, and what came out of my violin was noise, not music.
“Cut!”
The cable guys lowered Mateo, and I slid down my silk.
The director met us on stage. “What is the name of your scene?”
I sighed. “The Spider and the Fly.”
“And you’ve known this the entire time?”
“Of course.”
“Look at him.”
Even the quickest flick of a glance made my breath catch. And not in a fun way.
“There’s no time to find another aerial violinist.” He checked his phone. “You have two hours to get back the chemistry that was steaming things up this morning.”
Mateo spoke up. “I have an idea, but I’d have to wear the costume outside. If she can get used to it—”
I snorted. That wasn’t possible. It was too big, too hairy, too—
“Come out with me.” Mateo pushed up his mask and I focused on his beautiful face. “We’ll hit a deli, get picnic stuff and—”
“Draw way too much attention. It’ll never—”
“Not so fast,” the director said. “Just the spider costume. Go to Starlight. Wait twenty minutes so I can get some media types to happen by and we can create some buzz for the show.”
“Very funny,” I said, as deadpan as I could. “Buzz. For the fly.”
But the director was already on his phone. He mouthed, “Go change.”
What was my problem? I’d performed in dozens of countries crazy with giant, hairy spiders. I didn’t have a problem with them. But expand them to man-sized…. I shuddered.
The spider was waiting for me in the lobby. I mean, Mateo. Mateo was waiting for me.
“Can’t you keep your mask up?” My most pitiful voice worked and soon I could see his mischievous smile. “You look way too pleased with yourself.”
Instead of answering, he headed for the doors. “Will you help me get through? Francesca threatened my manhood if any of the legs get crushed.”
Even after I opened both doors wide and put down the stoppers, I still had to guide the top two legs through. Which meant I had to touch them. The hair felt like a hipster beard: springy and surprisingly soft. The bottom two legs dragged on the ground, so Mateo slipped his arms out of the second pair of appendages and held up the bottom ones, swinging them like a lady in a hoop skirt.
I smiled. But still, I stayed well wide of the outer reaches of the costume.
“Did you read Harry Potter?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“You remember Lupin—”
“Remembering Lupin makes me teary.”
“There’s the scene with the boggart, where they have to make it seem silly in order to defeat it.”
“Riddikulus.” I put the emphasis properly on the ku. “That’s what this is about?”
He whistled a tuneless tune. Like someone trying to hide something. I waited.
“I may have been wanting to ask you out,” he said.
Heat spread upwards from my chest, but I didn’t look at him; I didn’t want the costume to ruin my bliss. “Here’s the Starlight.”
We stood on the sidewalk, staring into the deli. There was no way he could fit in there. I looked at our reflection. The spider didn’t look terrifying in the window. Not quite silly, but it was an improvement.
I took his order and went in. When I reached the front of the line, there was heavy banging: Mateo was spread eagled against the window. The counter guys looked up and screamed like little girls. I managed to hide my laughter until I finished ordering. The media was there when I got out, so we talked with them and posed for photos with our sandwiches.
Mateo held out his hand and I took it. Suppleness returned to my wrists and to my fingers at his touch.
We might as well have floated back to the theatre and into the deserted orchestra pit.
When he put his arms around me, the spider legs brushed me, so I extended my arms to hold them away. He tightened his right arm around my lower back and held me tightly to him, just like in our opening move, except now we were kissing. Delicious.
“You two ready?” The director peered into the pit.
We jumped apart like naughty teenagers.
Mateo looked down. “Give me a minute.”
That was one snug leotard. I grinned. “The spider appears to have nine legs.”
Boys and girls, this will be my last Kickstarter-related post.
[I pause here to give you a moment to say, “Thank goodness.”]
In three days, the campaign will be over. We’re getting closer: less than $10,000 to go. And there are a few big contributions that I’ve been told to expect that haven’t come in yet. Still, hope and anxiety are battling it out inside me, swooping in and out of prominence like a murmuration of starlings.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DmO4Ellgmd0
Frankly, that was so mesmerizing, I’m already a little calmer. Mesmerizing murmuration. That’s fun to say. Go ahead, take a moment to say it out loud.
But the reality of all that swooping in my emotional life isn’t nearly so beautiful. I will be relieved when, in three days, we know the status of this project. When we know whether we’re moving full steam ahead, or scrambling to rethink everything.
It’s been a privilege to hear so many of our supporters tell us their adoption and fostering stories. It’s been moving to feel the support of so many people. Still, I will do everything in my power to never do another crowdfunding campaign ever again. I know it’s a good business model for testing market support and building buzz, but I am not well-suited to the emotional roller-coaster.
So one final plea. One final link. I’d be a bad entrepreneur if I didn’t. Here’s the video, and here’s the link.
But my father is. Which may be why I am not one. Or, rather, why I never wanted to be one.
Do you know how long and how hard entrepreneurs work? My dad was still pulling all-nighters well into his fifties.
Do you know how much entrepreneurs carry on their shoulders? For a year after high school, I worked for my dad’s fledgling company, and since I was daughter, as well as employee, I knew those times he was one day away from not making payroll. He always worked it out and found backers, but that’s a lot of stress for one person who’s simultaneously building a product, managing the people making and selling the product, finding new markets, taking care of current customers, pushing innovation, coming up with new ideas so there will be more products in the future, traveling to spread the word, wondering whether they’re making money fast enough to keep the investors happy, making sure that the deals made are solid enough for both the near and the far future, all while doing things like spending time with family and friends (who add their own stresses, as well as joys). Entrepreneurs are superheroes. Seriously.
Their ability to maintain hope and determination in the face of rejection and long odds is amazing.
I like to have a job I can complete. I like to have work I don’t have to worry about after I leave the office. I like clear expectations and reachable goals. I like to have my evenings free. If I can swing it, I like to have my late-afternoons free.
But, alas. I am too much like my father: I have ideas that inspire and delight and confound me, and in pursuing them, I’ve become a writer who is independently publishing her work.
In other words: I’ve become an entrepreneur.
This year, I’ve started two companies and brought two writing projects to ever-nearing fruition. I’ve got this Kickstarter thing happening for As Real As It Gets (a picture book about an adopted or foster child who yells, “You’re not my real mother!”) (less than two weeks to see whether we’ll make it!), which is a constant dance of pitching, rejection, acceptance, and learning. So, so much learning. And the thing about mistakes is that you can only see them after you’ve made a decision and acted on it, not before. I am constantly anxious, yet still a little hopeful. Committed to moving forward, mistakes and all.
Given that there are 11 days to go and we aren’t even a third of the way funded, it feels like there is a good chance we won’t make our goal for the Kickstarter, which means that we don’t get any of that money, which means that we have to find other methods for getting this book published. Because we will get this book published.
If every person who told us they think the book is amazing and asked us to let them know when it’s published (not to mention the organizations that do the same), contributed to the crowd funding campaign, we’d be set. But they don’t. Is it because you have to be a little entrepreneurial to contribute to a Kickstarter campaign? I don’t know, but we’re working as hard as we can to get the word out to anyone who might be just that little bit of entrepreneurial. Or to any adoptive or foster parents who might be just a little bit desperate for books that address their kids’ experiences.
Speaking of which, Amanda and I will be interviewed by Grand Rapids community powerhouse Shelley Irwin on the WGVU Morning Show on Friday (I’ll post a link once it’s on the web).
So check us out, if you haven’t already. Spread the link around if you haven’t already.
Today marks Day 12 of the Kickstarter campaign for As Real As It Gets, a picture book about how an adoptive family handles the words, “You’re not my real mother,” with love, humor, and a T Rex. If you haven’t done so already, I’ll give you a moment to click on the links above and check it out and, hopefully, contribute. And, just for fun, here’s the last sneak peek of an illustration sketch, when the monster slinks away after the mother defeats it.
* * * *
I’ve been thinking today about that old chestnut, “I’ll do X when the timing is right,” X being a wide variety of things: have children, get married, look for a new job, go to counseling, write that book, start yoga, give up sugar, etc.
To that, let’s add “Open a Kickstarter campaign.”
Now is not the right time for me. It’s been 42 days since my world was turned upside down in the worst way (I apologize for the vagueness, but I’m not prepared to speak about it here yet). I’m still lost and overwhelmed, fielding way too many phone calls, not sleeping well, ferrying people and myself to appointments, reimagining a whole new life, looking for a job. This is not the time to begin an intense campaign to gather enough contributors to fund a picture book project.
Now is not the right time for our series editor/visionary. She and her husband have expanded their family by one more kid, which means their household includes two twenty-somethings, three teenagers, and one tween, all of whom live at home. They’re also getting themselves relicensed for fostering so they can explore a relationship with a recently discovered full sibling to one of their adopted children.
Now is not the right time for our illustrator. He was out of town for a week when the campaign went live (the first miscommunication in our partnership). He’s got a painting up at Art Prize.
And there are always other things going on, other tensions that we don’t know about each other.
But we’re doing it anyway.
If we waited for everything to be just right, we’d be waiting forever. It’s never going to be just right. There will always be challenges. Always be surprises both horrible and wonderful. Always be that terrified voice in your head that tells you it’ll never work and you can never do it.
Do your X anyway.
It may not turn out “well.” We may not make our funding goal, in which case we don’t see a dime of the money and we have to figure out a new way to make As Real As It Gets happen. But it won’t be for lack of trying.
I really do hope that you, my lovely readers, will consider contributing. But whether you can contribute or not, I’m guessing you know some adoptive or foster families, or some grandparents of adoptive families; please send them the Kickstarter link. If you need a little more incentive, here are two endorsements by social workers:
As an adoption professional and trauma specialist working in the field of foster care adoption, the concepts of the monster of doubt, of “I’m not good enough”, “No one will want me”, “Let me leave you, before you can leave me” are VERY real to our children, of ALL ages…toddler-teen. As Real as it Gets! Is a groundbreaking children’s book, for children who have experienced fragile early attachments and tough starts. It acknowledges the monster, the dinosaur, that lurks, and can come and go, but that the steadfastness of the parent’s love, through all circumstances, ultimately vanquishes the foe. As a foster and adoptive mother, I can attest to the need for such a book. It will open conversations in a non-threatening way, and the idea that the child and even parent, are not alone in their struggle against the monster. I am very excited for both the excellent text as well as exciting illustration bringing alive the idea that we as parent’s ARE as real as it gets, and our love is NOT afraid of that monster, which WILL get littler and littler with time.
Sara Blomeling DeRoo LMSW
Trauma Specialist
Operation Forever Family
Intensive Child Specific Recruitment
Bethany Christian Services Of Michigan
“As Real As It Gets” addresses the intersection of our universal need for belonging with the challenges born out of merging families through foster care and adoption. Written out of Amanda’s own experience as a foster and adoptive mom, the book normalizes one of the difficulties foster and adoptive children (and some days all of us) face-the messy truth that sometimes love and forever are hard concepts to grasp. I’m thankful for Amanda’s heart for these children and as a child welfare worker I am confident this book will be a strong resource for foster and adoptive children and families.”
Shelby Van Kooten
Bethany Christian Services Of Michigan
No matter what, I encourage you to do your “X” anyway, whether all the stars are aligned or not. (I write this as much for myself and my book partners as for you.) Let’s put the “courage” in “encouragement” (this is probably one of the cheesiest things I’ve ever said)!
Today marks Day 6 of the Kickstarter campaign for As Real As It Gets, a picture book about how an adoptive family handles the words, “You’re not my real mother,” with love, humor, and a T Rex. If you haven’t done so already, I’ll give you a moment to head over and check it out and, hopefully, contribute.
Welcome back.
Do you feel like you need to see more? Okay. Here’s a sneak peek of a drawing that Joel Schoon-Tanis did in preparation for a painting.
The little boy has just yelled, “You’re not my real mother.”
Everything stretches and slows down like I fell in a black hole.
This is the brilliance of Joel. The monster is clearly saying, “Whatcha gonna do about that?” It thinks it has won. The boy is dizzy and overwhelmed.
To me, this drawing encapsulates our goals with this project: reflect a child’s perspective with frankness, but also humor and care.
And the mother is unfazed. This is when she delivers her line, but she doesn’t always say it the same way.
The monster always thinks this will be the time it shocks my mother, but she always says the same thing.
Sometimes she yells it in her “Go to your room!” voice. “I’m as real as it gets and I’m not giving up. I’m your mother in truth. Your mother. Forever.”
What are some other tones of voice a mother might use when saying these words for, say, the twentieth time?
In all seriousness, please support As Real As It Gets, either with a pledge or by sending the link to someone you know who might like it. Not just for the kids who will be able to see themselves in a story (maybe even your own kids or grandkids), but, honestly and vulnerably, also for me — due to some major life setbacks, this has become needed income.
There was a brief timespan in college when I was going to go into Medieval literature. I’d taken a one-month class, taught by the now very distinguished H. Evan Runner Chair in the History of Philosophy at the Institute for Christian Studies, Bob Sweetman. At the time, his children were still toddlers, which lends dignity to noone; back then, he drank out of a Spiderman mug and students made fun of his ties. Anyway, it was a one-month class entitled Women in Medieval Society, and we read Teresa of Avila, Julian of Norwich, and Hildegard of Bingen.
I have a very clear memory of Prof. Sweetman quoting one of the women (maybe Teresa of Avila?) to us, “Open Thy mouth wider, God, that I may taste Thee.” But I can’t find reference to it anywhere.
This was a group of passionate, fascinating, deep thinking women. We read them, we learned about their lives; Hildegard’s music even became my favorite study music.
But I somehow missed that Hildegard illuminated her own visions, in bright, trippy paintings. I was going to take one and unpack it, but it’s rather like uncoding some of the biblical visions in the Old Testament and in Revelation: they reveal as much about the assumptions of the time as they do matters of spiritual import. So instead of wrestling with that, I just want to gather some of my favorite illuminations for our mutual awe and enjoyment.
Thank you so much to my good friend Christina Van Dyke for showing these to me. I’m pretty sure they’ll still be as astonishing while I’m sitting here at my dining room table, as they were yesterday in the blazing sunshine over a beer.
How the Creation Came AboutSix Days of CreationThe Mystical BodyThe Day of the Great RevelationGod Enthroned Shows Himself to HildegardHildegard von Bingen, receiving a vision (that is the holy fire of inspiration coming to her head from above)
Following is the short story that won me first place in round 8 of the Writer Unboxed Flash Fiction contest. The photo is by Brin Jackson of a beloved gargoyle named Gabriel, in her garden. The story was inspired by the photo. I hope you enjoy it (Harry Potter fans, in particular).
“Troops, you know what this is about.”
Their stone heads nodded and their red eyes flared.
“Revenge.” I unfurled my terrible wings. “We used to be respected. We used to be feared.”
My hoary comrades, half-covered in the indignity of moss, rumbled.
“We used to have a purpose. Now we’re just ornaments. They think we’re cute. And it’s all her fault.” We glared up at the big house. “Tonight, no more hiding in the hostas. You know your assignments.”
And so it began.
Seven nights of lining the windowsills of whatever room she was in. Seven nights of marking her as the target with the beam of our red eyes. Seven nights of infiltrating her dreams with images more terrifying than those she’d imagined.
On the morning of the eighth day, she came to us. “I’m going mad.”
I rotated my shoulders just enough that she could hear stone grinding on stone.
She crouched in front of me. “I don’t know how you know what I’ve written or who I am, but I apologize. How can I make it up to you?”
I told her our demands. She stood and tapped on her phone and then showed me the results.
@jk_rowling Garden gnomes are not cute objects of fun to be tossed over your garden gate at Harry Potter birthday parties.
@jk_rowling Garden gnomes are gargoyles, which are seriously fearsome magical creatures that we should all respect, if not fear.
Sometimes the waves are large, and pounding, and they carve away at what’s there, revealing the layers that were underneath the surface.
They reveal the black sand.
The black sand has its own beauty, but it also clings thickly, clumping in a heavy mass on my feet as I walk through it.
I can’t avoid it. Sure, I could try to hike up the ledge, but even if I managed it, I’d have to walk in the sharp dune grass that is full of ticks. I could fight the waves, but I’m not dressed for getting soaked.
So I walk through the black sand (revealing the regular sand with every step).
Here’s the thing about the waves: they exposed the black sand, but they also wash my feet clean.
And the regular sand is right in front of me. Yes, it’s gritty. Yes, there are bits of black sand mixed in. But it is the sand I love to walk in, to play in. Dare I say, it gives my soul, and my soles, rest.
The waves will come. Sometimes they will reveal darkness, and I will have to walk through it. But, even so, with every step, the light is revealed, and I trust that I will walk in the light again.
