A Women of Faith Weekend

A month ago, I wasn't sure I'd be coming to Seattle this weekend for Women of Faith.  Free tickets to the conference was great, but I still had to get here and find a place to say.  And I hadn't found anyone who could come with me.  As I tried to decide what to do about the event, my focus began to change.  Instead of thinking of someone I'd like to spend a weekend with, I began praying, "Lord, You know who needs to be at this conference.  Please put us together so I can help her get there."

Soon after, Joanna commented on Facebook that she was thinking about it.  I said I'd love to have her join me.  Within a week, we booked our plane tickets to Seattle and began emailing each other about what we wanted to do before and after the conference.  This weekend has come to feel like a divine appointment.  From the moment Joanna and I met at a small cafe here, we've talked nonstop—about editing FellowScript, homeschooling, the conference, children, our husbands, Seattle, our dreams, etc.  We knew we would like each other because we read each other's blogs, but I feel like God must be smiling at how much fun we're having together this weekend and how He orchestrated it.

Joanna and I at Women of Faith

Joanna arrived here Thursday night and navigated the conference by herself during the day on Friday.  When I flew in just before supper, I simply had to follow her around... to the Key Arena for the evening of the conference, to our B&B for the night, and back to the Arena this morning for the main event.  And what a conference it has been.  Today, I was scribbling notes in my little black notebook as each speaker seemed to say something that spoke right to my heart.  I blinked back tears so often today and thought of so many things that I want to write about and change in my own life.

Sandi Patty encouraging us at Women of Faith

Sandi Patty, Brenda Warner, Lisa Welchel, Mandisa, Patsy Clairmont, Marilyn Mebourg—all these ladies shared their stories with us this weekend, opened their hearts to us.  Sandi said we need to share our stories with each other so we can see how God has been faithful in the past—and we can trust He'll be faithful in the future too.  It's easy to get bogged down in our current problem (or to just get busy with kids/school/work/etc) and to lose that focus.  This weekend, and the stories these women shared about their own struggles—with weight, kids, faith, illness, loss—has felt like a drop of water falling into the desert my heart had become.

Women of Faith in the Key Arena

I came to Women of Faith skeptical.  Yes, I like conferences, but I don't always go for big crowds and flashing lights and loud music.  In part, the conference was just an excuse to get away for a weekend.  Yet God knew that Women of Faith was just what I needed.  I think He put my name in the right place to be chosen as a conference blogger and then nudged Joanna to come along (we're already talking about the possibility of returning next year... for another "drink from the well"...)  I am so grateful to the Women of Faith team for putting the weekend together, to my husband for saying "go for it," to Joanna for coming, and to God who really did know who needed to be here.

To see what Joanna had to say about the conference, check out her post.

Stop and Listen to the Music

He stood on the edge of the main street through Alice Springs, holding a large cardboard sign that read “3 Jokes $1.”  His long blonde beard, bushy and falling halfway down his chest, partly hid his cheery smile.  The rest of his head was bald, as if his hair had all fallen off the top and landed on the bottom.  A baseball cap shaded his face from the hot sun but couldn’t dim the bright twinkle in his eyes.

I sat inside the restaurant across the street as two girls walked up to him.  He bobbed his shoulders in a comical way as they approached, and then, as they passed him something, began waving his hands around while still holding his sign.  One of the girls burst out laughing and the other grinned.  They stood there for some five minutes while he did most of the talking.  I wished I could eavesdrop.

Down the street from there, a few days earlier I had passed another man busking in more conventional style.  His deep voice could be heard from a block away as he crooned a country ballad and strummed a guitar.  His black skin and curly hair seemed out of keeping with this white cowboy image, but his voice made up for the incongruity.  His guitar case sat open on the ground in front of his sandal-clad feet, a few coins scattered inside.  He watched his fingers rather than the passing people.

Like the man telling jokes, most people passed this man by without a glance in his direction.  Unlike the joke teller, the passers-by could enjoy this man’s talent without having to pay for a demonstration of it.

On another evening, I walked by the harbour in Sydney and heard a sweet soprano voice drifting on the cool night air.  The singer was harder to find, standing in the shadows between two lamp poles.  Behind her, street lights reflected on the dark water.  At this hour, the harbour was quiet and there were few people to appreciate her talent.  Her long blonde hair was pulled back into a braid, and she wore white jeans and a pale shirt.  There was no guitar case in front of her; she stood there with just herself and her instruments, playing for sole enjoyment – whether hers or the passers-by.

Those buskers stood out to me as I traveled in Australia.  More recently, I walked up to the library here in Victoria with my daughters.  In the open, airy courtyard, a man sat strumming a guitar and singing Gordon Lightfoot songs.  When he saw the girls, he started playing “She’ll Be Coming Round the Mountain.”

We had a few spare minutes before meeting my husband after work and I had a frappucino to finish before we entered the library, so we sat down on a stone bench to listen to this personal concert.  As he played “If You’re Happy and You Know It” and the ABC song, I dug through my wallet for some change.  Passing the loonie to Sunshine, I told her to run over and drop it in his black guitar case.

Jonny Hahn plays piano at Pike Place

I have often passed by buskers without acknowledging their music or even their presence.  Yet I’ve come to realize that they make our cities a nicer place.  There’s something delightfully surprising about coming around a crowded corner at the Calgary Stampede to find a man in full Scottish dress playing his bagpipes or walking the harbour here in Victoria while Darth Vader saws away at his violin.  Now, if I see a busker, I smile and nod and if I have time, try to find some change in appreciation for their music.

Addendum: At the Seattle Pike Place Market on Sunday (two days after I wrote this post), I found this man busking.  He played beautifully, but it was the sight of his cute little piano sitting on a busy street corner that made me almost laugh.

Christian Publishing University Launches

September 1 marked the start of a new school year for most people, as well as the launch of a new online school for writers: Christian Publishing University. A membership-based site, CPU seeks to bring together a wealth of information on the Christian publishing industry by offering online classes, consultations with authors and publishers, self-publishing assistance, devotionals and prayer support, an online store, and much more.

As a blogger, I had the chance to check out CPU for free during the month of October. While my schedule this month has been rather hectic, I did pop into the site several times. I'm always interested in learning more as a writer and I was excited to see a website targeted specifically at Christian writers. There are a number of great writing websites, but CPU promises insider information for Christian writers.

Max Lucado recommends CPU by saying, "The Christian Publishing University is a timely response to an increasing need. Christian writing needs to set the standard in published literature. CPU takes us in that direction. Aspiring writers now have a resource for guidance and instruction. I can envision this ministry as a blessing to so many people." While I agree with his comment about Christian writing, I didn't find the answer at CPU.

First, the website didn't strike me as being easy to navigate. I realize it's hard to organize a large amount of information (CPU is supposed to have 150 pages of information), but even with a neat sidebar, it seemed hard to find anything—or at least get to a place that provided me with information rather than more links to other pages. The links in the "Campus Guide" seemed to all send me to the same page of non-specific links, no matter whether I wanted to see information for "Editors and Proofreaders" or for "Authors, Poets, Playwrights, and Writers" (the latter being a very large category).

Second, CPU Director of Communications Mary Hollingsworth says, “So far, we’ve only scratched the surface. We’ll be constantly adding new resources, classes, and opportunities as we go forward. We have some really exciting expansion plans for the future.” But the blog (which you'd expect to be the most up-to-date part of the website) currently has only two posts, both made in early September.  That was the first place I went, to see what they were talking about.  The post on eBooks is timely and interesting, but nothing more has been added since.

Third, I had a hard time seeing anything here that was worth the membership price tag.  I don't have a problem with paying for information but I do want to know my money is well spent.  Especially when those other writers' websites I mentioned are free.  After paying just to get into the website, you can pay more to speak with an adviser or take a writing seminar.

If you've had a different experience with CPU, feel free to let me know.  Personally, I think my ICWF membership offers me way more—and it has a Canadian as well as a Christian focus.

Rosie the Guinea Pig Visits

"Mommy, can we bring Zoe home from preschool?" Sunshine asked me from her car seat behind mine in the Jeep one afternoon while we were driving home.

Picturing her favourite Sesame Street character, I said, "Toys stay at the preschool.  You have a Zoe doll at home to play with."

Sunshine kept talking and slowly I connected "Zoe" with something about a mouse.  "Oh," I asked, "is Zoe the preschool mouse?  We get to bring her home in a few weeks.  Do you like her?"

"Yes," Sunshine said.  "She's white."

Picturing a little white mouse, I was surprised a few weeks later by the size of the cage.  Zoe, I discovered, was Sunshine's way of saying "Rosie."  I loaded her pail of shavings into the Jeep when I dropped Sunshine off at preschool.  After preschool, Sunshine carried Rosie's pail of pellets, Lily carried the water bottle, and I carted the cage.  It just barely fit on the front seat of the Jeep.  Once at home, I settled Rosie onto the blanket chest (which makes a great side-table) in our dining room and took off the cover of her cage.

Rosie was clearly not a small white mouse, but rather a light brown guinea pig with big brown eyes and a patch of hair missing on her back, revealing her black skin.  She displayed her long teeth while chewing on the bars of her cage, and I read quickly down the list of "Rules for Rosie" to find out what we could feed her.  Cucumber every other day (not very nutritional), pinkie-sized carrot once a day, very little pepper (too much calcium), broccoli was fine.  Great, I had some broccoli.

The girls enjoy sitting beside Rosie, watching her.  Lily says "hi, hi, hi" to her and Sunshine always wants to feed her.  On Sunday afternoon, while I was canning pears, I found it quite companionable to have a little guinea pig watching me (and eating a few pear peelings).  The smell of her shavings reminds me of the lambs and chicks I used to raise as a child, but I never had anything like a guinea pig.  Late one night, as I dared to pet Rosie's soft fur after giving her some pellets, she whistled softly at me.

Tomorrow, Rosie goes back to the preschool.  Technically, we're not allowed pets here, but I enjoyed seeing how the girls reacted to Rosie.  So far, Rosie has held their attention longer than Siam-I-Am (who is now demonstrating that it's a good thing beta fish are hardy, as I try to feed him every morning... or every other morning...) and been a good way to teach them about feeding pets and being gentle.  Maybe someday we'll take care of her again.

Explore: Goldstream Park

Goldstream Park borders the highway about half an hour's drive outside Victoria.  The park was named for a minor gold rush between 1898 and 1901, but these days, it is the site of a different sort of rush: every October, people come to see the salmon spawning.  We have yet to see that; last year, we went in November and found more dead salmon than live fish and this year, the salmon are late.

Last weekend was a gorgeous, sunny weekend (albeit cool) here in Victoria and we took advantage of it to head out to Goldstream Park to hike the trestle trail.  We'd been talking about this hike for a few weeks, but previous plans had been cancelled due to rainy weather.  At the trailhead, I put Lily in the Ergo on my back and helped my husband get Sunshine into his frame carrier.  She lasted about ten minutes there before she wanted down to hike by herself.

Sunshine hiking the Trestle Trail at Goldstream Park

Sunshine viewing Mount Finlayson from the railway trestle

Scenery beside the Gold Mine Trail on the way back down

The abandoned gold mine near the trail

Both girls thoroughly enjoyed the hike, making me once again think to myself that we need to do this more often.  The trail was narrow but clearly marked, so I kept Lily in the Ergo for most of the hike (despite her complaints, until she finally decided to have her nap), but Sunshine enjoyed leading the way and climbing over roots and rocks.  When she got tired, she asked to get back into the carrier, which was a great place for her to have a snack as well.  We spent about two and a half hours climbing to the railway trestle and then following the trail past the old gold mine to the highway, where we hiked back along the highway, detoured down to the river, and then returned to the Jeep.

Virginia Woolf on Writing, Publishing, and Reading

A few weeks ago, my husband was browsing the shelves at Russell Books when Lily decided she absolutely needed to nurse right now.  I sat down in a convenient chair and, while she was busy, perused the nearby titles.  The shelf at eye-level to my left was packed with Virginia Woolf books; most of them were paperbacks castoff (I imagined) by English students as soon as they'd written their essays or final exams.  

Among the red and white paperbacks was one nice copy of Mrs. Dalloway that found its way into my hands as soon as Lily was done.  I admired its size, stroked its smooth leather, touched the gold writing, and tenderly opened it to turn its thin pages.  Inside, I found an introduction (lacking in all the paperbacks) in which Virginia Woolf's words about writing caused me to buy the book.  Here is an excerpt.

Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf

It is difficult—perhaps impossible—for a writer to say anything about his own work.  All he has to say has been said as fully and as well as he can in the body of the book itself.  If he has failed to make his meaning clear there it is scarcely likely that he will succeed in some few pages of preface or postscript.  And the author's mind has another peculiarity which is also hostile to introductions.  It is as inhospitable to its offspring as the hen sparrow is to hers.  Once the young birds can fly, fly they must; and by the time they have fluttered out of the nest the mother bird has begun to think perhaps of another brood.  In the same way once a book is printed and published it ceases to be the property of the author; he commits it to the care of other people; all his attention is claimed by some new book which not only thrusts it predecessor from the nest but also has a way of subtly blackening its character in comparison with its own.

It is true that the author can if he wishes tell us something about himself and his life which is not in the novel; and to this effort we should do all that we can to encourage him.  For nothing is more fascinating than to be shown the truth which lies behind those immense facades of fiction—if life is indeed true, and if fiction is indeed fictitious.  And probably the connection between the two is highly complicated.  Books are the flowers or fruit stuck here and there on a tree which has its roots deep down in the earth of our earliest life, of our first experiences.  But here again to tell the reader anything that his own imagination and insight have no already discovered would need not a page or two of preface but a volume or two of autobiography.  Slowly and cautiously one would have to go to work, uncovering, laying bare, and even so when everything had been brought to the surface, it would still be for the reader to decide what was relevant and what not. ...

But if one has too much respect for the reader pure and simple to point out to him what he has missed, or to suggest to him what he should seek, one may speak more explicitly to the reader who has put off his innocence and become a critic.  For though criticism, whether praise or blame, should be accepted in silence as the legitimate comment which the act of publication invites, now and again a statement is made without bearing on the book's merits or demerits which the writer happens to know to be mistaken. ...

The reader it is to be hoped will not give a thought to the book's method or the book's lack of method.  He is concerned only with the effect of the book as a whole on his mind.  Of that most important question he is a far better judge than the writer.  Indeed, given time and liberty to frame his own opinion he is eventually an infallible judge.  To him then the writer commends Mrs. Dalloway and leaves the court confident that the verdict whether for instant death or for some years more of life and liberty will in either case be just.

~ Virginia Woolf, London, June 1928

Introduction to Mrs. Dalloway 

New York: Harcourt, Brace & Co, 1925

Are the Berenstain Bears Good or Bad?

Some of my best childhood memories are connected with books my dad read to us for bedtime stories.  I remember borrowing library books he liked as much as my brothers and I—books by Bill Peet, Stan and Jan Berenstain, Dr. Seuss.  As I've started reading stories to my own daughter, I find myself returning to those old favourites and rediscovering why I liked them so much.

I was shocked, however, when I picked up one Berenstain Bear book Sunshine found on her bookshelf.  I began reading it to her with pleasant memories of my dad reading to me; by the time I finished, I was troubled with the image of Papa Bear as a big buffoon who couldn't do anything as well as his cubs.  In Ready, Get Set, Go!, Mama Bear serves as timekeeper and coach while Brother, Sister, and Papa compete against each other.  Brother and Sister can dive deeper, run faster, climb higher; the only thing Papa does best is sleep longest.

The Berenstain Bear Family

As I thought about that, I realized that generally, in the series, Papa Bear isn't the smartest bear in the house (at least in my memories).  I began wondering why I would want to read a book to my daughters that disparages dads.  I certainly don't want them to associate their dad with Papa Bear; I want them to look up to and admire him, just as I did with my dad.  How do I foster that attitude when some of their books are presenting a different picture?

As I did some research on this question, I discovered many other parents and thinkers have questioned the message of the Bear family.  While the books deliver morals and nice pictures (some say "too many morals" and "cheesy pictures"), several writers have called the Berenstains out for creating an anti-dad series.  Then, in an obituary for Stan Berenstain, I found Stan's answer to these critics:  "We've gotten unkind letters complaining that we are emasculating the men in the family. The absolute truth is that Papa Bear is based on me."

I can understand self-deprecating humour—but when your books become so popular that they sell more copies than Harry Potter, that image becomes universalized.  Yet maybe it's starting to change.  Over the years, the Berenstain Bears have undergone a facelift (one of Sunshine's DVD uses the older style of animation) and now Mike Berenstain, writing with his mother Jan, is producing a new series of Bible-inspired Berenstain Bears.  I'm curious to see what Papa's role in those books in, though as I thought about this question, I realized that his character has already started to change.

Sunshine has two Berenstain Bear DVDs (purchased before I discovered the book) and in the newer DVD, Papa Bear is a more admirable figure.  He learns to bake apple pies and dispenses some discipline—even though he falls behind on his taxes while Brother Bear is falling behind on his homework, so that they have to catch up together.  Perhaps that's a more realistic picture of a dad as a man who makes mistakes yet still provides his family with leadership and a good example.

Liebster Blog Award

I'm honoured that Mary Waind, a fellow blogger and Inscriber, just nominated me for the Liebster Blog Award.  This award features bloggers with less than 200 followers in the spirit of pay-it-forward.

Rules: Mention and provide a link to the blogger who awarded you the Liebster and mention five other worthy blogs with less than 200 followers.

These are the five bloggers I wish to honour (in alphabetical order), with hopes that you can take time to have a peek at their blogs:

Joanna Clark Dawyd, another fellow blogger, writer, and Inscriber, whom I actually get to meet in person at the Women of Faith conference in Seattle in a couple of weeks!

Emily-in-the-Spotlight, a fellow mom and blogger whom I actually met through my husband (they studied together at university).

Roni Loren, a romance writer whose blog I discovered lately (she has lots of great writing tips and links).

Robin of Farewell Stranger, a writer from here on the island whom I've had the honour of hosting here on my blog.

Marcia Laycock, also an Inscriber and one of the best writers (and writing teachers) I know, who is currently chronicling her battle with cancer.

If you have some time, drop by to visit the blogs of these incredible women.  I do, when I have time... which isn't as often as I would like it to be.  And have a great weekend!

The Evolution of a Writer

I grew up reading voraciously.  We never had a TV, so instead of watching the latest programs, I’d sprawl on our brown plaid couch reading whatever book I could get my hands on.  The bigger the book, the better.  I had an adult library card long before I turned eighteen, because on a children’s card I could only borrow four books at a time, and that wasn’t enough to keep me reading for the week before we could make it back to the library again.

When I was ten, Mom gave me an old black dayminder in which to keep track of the books I’d read.  I wrote down title, author, and the date I finished the book.  Some entries are neat, carefully written in blue or black ink.  Others are hastily scrawled in pink and purple.  Many books appear multiple times; I read the entire Narnia series twice in one year.  Many titles bring back memories, some vague as I haven’t read the books again, others fond as I know the books very well.

I suppose it was because I was reading so much that I started writing.  I received a diary when I was ten and scrawled irregularly in it for the next two years.  I wrote a few stories for school, about my teddy bears and what they did when I was out of the room.  Another story was based on exploring an old abandoned house with my best friend, but I embellished it with what could have happened.

I was fourteen when I printed my first book.  It was one hundred and fifty pages long, computer typed, single spaced.  It is a fantasy about two people from enemy tribes who work to stop the fighting between their tribes.  The ideas came to me slowly; the opening scene was a picture in my head as I sat at my computer, and the story unfolded from there.  Then I got stuck at the end, unsure how to finish it, until a comment from Dad inspired me.

My family knew that, when I was sitting at the computer typing, I was working on a story.  They pestered me for years to print something for them to read.  I said I would when it was ready.  Part of me was scared.  What if they laughed at my ideas or told me my story was terrible?  I was nervous about giving them my book for Christmas, and tiptoed around for the next few days while they read.  I needn’t have worried.  My brothers were reading over my parents’ shoulders and they all thought it was great.  I started on the next book in the series.

In high school, I had my first story published.  A short story I wrote about one of my lambs won honorable mention in an ICWF writing contest, so Grandma sent it to her small-town paper, The Olds Albertan, and it was printed.  I wrote more stories about our animals, and those were also published and paid for.  It was a thrill to discover that I actually was a writer and that people wanted to read what I’d written.

As I finished high school and thought about university, I never wondered what I wanted to do, only how to do it.  I wanted to write; whatever I did would have something to do with writing.  Journalism was ruled out pretty quickly, as we didn’t get a newspaper and I wasn’t interested in that.  I wanted to write fiction.  I finally enrolled in an English degree, which fed both my love of writing and my love of reading.

I should have realized my interest sooner than I did, but it took me almost two years to discover that I wanted to study novels.  The books I read were novels and the stories I wrote were novels.  I took the required English classes, whatever fit my schedule and interests, and enjoyed them.  The 19th century novel course looked interesting because I’d already read most of the authors.  The next year I was in the 18th century novel course, despite having heard complaints about how boring the novels were.  As a writer, I was fascinated to see the development of the novel, from its beginnings to what it is today.

In university, I was so busy writing papers and essays that I didn’t have time to work on my stories or articles.  They sat waiting on my computer, and every so often I’d pull one up and add a few paragraphs or chapters.  I kept journaling, filling twenty journals in ten years.  I published more articles, and when people asked me about my books, I’d say I would work on that when I finished university.

People assumed since I was taking English, I was planning to teach English (what else would you do with an English degree?).  It was a good conversation piece.  They’d ask where I was going to university and what I was taking, and then ask if I was going to teach, and I’d say, “No, actually, I’m going to be a writer.”  Sometimes that ended the conversation, as my answer was so odd that the person I was talking to didn’t know what to say.  Other people were more curious, wondering what I was going to write and if I’d already written anything and what sort of books I wrote.  That last question bothered me for a while, as I wasn’t sure how to answer.  Then I realized the answer: I wrote the sort of books I’d want to read.

Kimberley Payne, author of Fit for Faith, visits KBW

An Interview with Kimberley Payne

Author of Fit for Faith - 7 Weeks to Improved Spiritual & Physical Health

Fit for Faith by Kimberley Payne

Are you looking for balance in your life? Believing that prayer, Bible study and journal writing are to the spirit what exercise, healthy eating and stretching are to the body, this workbook unites spiritual health and physical health through a 7-week program to lose weight and develop a deeper relationship with God. This workbook is a motivational tool to empower women to improve their health to live balanced, whole and joyous lives that glorify God.

1. How was the idea for the book born?

Although I was born and raised within the church, it wasn't until I attended a Christian women's retreat that I realized how much I had compartmentalized my life: family in one corner, work in another; finances here, health there, faith over there. I began to see that my faith shouldn't be kept partitioned off from the rest of my life. Instead, it needed to be intertwined with all the parts of my life. If I was going to follow Him as my Lord, God wanted me to include Him in everything and that included my health and fitness.

2. What authority do you have to write this book?

I certified as a Weight Instructor through the YMCA, then went on to certify as an Aerobics Instructor through A.C.E., then went on to certify as a Personal Fitness through Can-Fit-Pro.

3.  There are many fitness books on the market. How is Fit for Faith any different?

Fit for Faith makes no assumptions about the reader’s spiritual walk. All levels, whether a new Christian or a mature Christian, can benefit from this program. It is a program for a new Christian who wants to learn about prayer, journal writing and Bible study in the comfort of their own home, but a mature Christian can still be refreshed in their faith and re-commit to a daily relationship with God. It is motivating with inspiring reflections included each day and Christian truths set forth in a non-threatening manner.

Fit for Faith makes no assumptions about the activity level of the reader. All levels, whether a sedentary individual or a seasoned athlete, can benefit from this program. It emphasizes overall health, not just weight loss. Expertise and professionalism are provided throughout the program in easy-to-read “fit tips” and goal-planning assistance. The program includes strategies that empower people to make small changes in their daily routines to improve the quality of their life. 

Fit for Faith is a well-rounded balanced program that follows the stages of change and so inspires confidence and builds esteem.

           

4.  What is your purpose in writing this book?

The purpose in writing is to share knowledge from the health and fitness field and to demonstrate that partnership with God always leads to success, in every area of life. It is designed with the message of the gospel at its heart.

5. What is involved in the 7-week program?

The Fit for Faith program starts with developing an action plan that includes exploring benefits and success strategies of exercising, healthy eating, and stretching the body and the spirit. Then, the reader moves into implementing the plan through a daily program of prayer, Bible study and tracking of healthy habits. Each week is capped with a review that is a natural lead into the next week.

6. Can the book be used in a group setting?

Fit for Faith is a simple workbook to support a person through their day. It is designed for individuals to participate on their own at any hour, and anywhere.  However, the workbook is extremely versatile and has proven success as a group program. Leader’s Notes are available to work within a group setting that can also be used as an outreach program within a church or workplace.

7. What are the benefits of the program?

It's like having your own personal trainer, without the cost. There is a ton of useful information that helps the reader wade through the myths and misconceptions that are out there.

It's an awareness program. The reader is accountable to record their activities, and this helps to recognize where their strengths are and what areas they need to improve.

It's a lifestyle change. Over the 7 weeks, the reader will gain habits that last a lifetime.

8. Where else can we find you on the Internet?

You can drop by my website or my blog, find me on Twitter and Facebook, or check out my YouTube channel.

Distracted in Church

A few months ago, our church held an hour of adoration following the Saturday evening Mass.  My husband and I agreed there was no way the girls would sit through adoration (they can barely make it through Mass), but I really wanted to go.  An hour to pray quietly, without doling out snacks and dire consequences for not sitting still, sounded heavenly.

My husband agreed to put the girls to bed while I went.  It felt strange to drive to church by myself, even stranger to walk in without carrying a child and a diaper bag.  I slid into a pew closer to the back on the right hand side, glanced around at the other people gathered, and tried to pray.  I watched as another mom I knew sat in front of me with her young baby.  I wondered if the girls were reading stories or playing with their dolls.

As Mass continued, I found I had to constantly drag my attention back to the prayers, the readings, the homily.  Instead of making sure the girls weren't fighting or dropping toys over the pew, I thought about my stories and my to-do list and what I would blog about this week.  Then I tried to focus on what the priest was saying.

As adoration started after Mass, I found myself remembering the first time I prayed in the presence of the Eucharist.  I had been skeptical of the idea at first; what did it matter that we prayed with a piece of bread?  As I came to understand the Eucharist as God Himself, I came to understand the power of adoration.  One day, shortly after moving into my first apartment in the city, I walked ten blocks to a nearby church that offered perpetual adoration and spent some time contemplating the reality of God present in that room.  It was a profound, moving time for me.

Now, as I knelt in the church with other young people, I found myself wanting to recreate that experience.  I wanted to feel close to God again, to know in my heart that He was present here.  Yet that sense of distraction continued.  I wondered if the girls had gone to bed or if they missed me.  I watched the other mom with her baby.  I stared at the Monstrance on the altar; the distance between me and God felt a lot further than twenty pews.

That night, I learned I don't need my children to distract me from God; I can find enough distractions in my own head.  I learned that trying to meet God once a week or a few times a year at special services doesn't create closeness.  Instead, I need to cultivate in my own heart a quiet attitude of prayerful meditation.  I need to find time in my daily routine to seek God, so that weekly Mass and special services become special, extra moments to connect with Him.  I need God present not just in the Eucharist at church, but in me.

I Hit the End of My Rope

I can picture the round, grey holds, the way I pushed down on one with my left hand and wrapped my right hand around the other, trying to get a secure grip.  I can picture the hold for my foot, not even twelve inches away from where my right toe is pressed onto a tinier hold.  I can picture the rough beige wall in front of my face, the twenty feet below me to the floor and the ten feet above me to the final handhold.  Then the picture shatters in pain.

I bounce at the end of the rope, clutching my right arm above the elbow.  Pain screams up and down my bicep—or is it my tricep?—and I gasp, "I think I pulled something.  Put me down."

My cousin's friend is belaying me and he lowers me without a word.  I find myself wondering if my cousin would have lowered me just as quickly—usually when I tell her "I can't do this anymore," her response is "Yes you can."  She's never let me quit halfway up the wall and because of that, I've always made it to the top, even after I thought I couldn't anymore.  This time is different.  This time, I've hurt myself.

Standing on the floor again, I ask for help unknotting the rope around my climbing harness.  Then I watch as my cousin belays her friend up a wall.  I swing my arm, trying to determine how much I hurt it and whether I can keep climbing or not.  I don't want to quit yet; I was ready to challenge myself with a 5.10c route I tried last week (and that my cousin had to coach me up while refusing to let me down).  She's been working on that route for a month, so I borrowed her expertise to climb it myself, though I spent a bunch of time just hanging out on a particularly hard underhang.

That was last week.  This week, I went to the climbing gym with my cousin and two of my neighbours.  My arm still protested a bit when I picked up Sunshine or Lily or reached above my head, but overall it felt pretty good.  I won't challenge myself this week, I thought.  I'll just climb some easy routes...

Rock climbing

Rock climbing has become for me almost an addiction.  Every Wednesday night, I meet my cousins and various friends at the gym for a couple hours of scrambling up the wall.  Even if I'm tired by suppertime from trying to convince the girls not to shriek at each other or whine at me, walking into the gym somehow re-energizes me.  Here, all I have to think about is the best way to climb a wall and which route I want to try this week.  I like to challenge myself, to come away at the end of the night with the feeling that I pushed myself hard and succeeded at something I couldn't do last month—or even last week.

So on Wednesday night, after I watch my neighbour climb the 5.10b route that wrecked my arm last week, I rope in to do it again.  It's an easy climb, until I get to the same holds that stumped me last week—the place I sat, mustering up the courage to make the move that sent pain shooting down my arm.  I'm not going to do that again, so I try to remember what he did to get past this section.  I attempt some new moves, twisting myself in ways I haven't before, ignoring the distance to the floor below me, trusting he's got my rope.  And I make it to the top.  My hands are sweaty and shaking as I ring the bell, but there's a sense of triumph coursing through me as I'm lowered to the floor again.

An Apprentice Writer

Classes are now well underway and, while I'm a bit overwhelmed by all the reading and critiquing I have to do, I am thoroughly enjoying them.  At the end of last year, I was questioning whether I should continue with the writing program.  My introductory classes were frustratingly introductory and childcare was leaving me very stressed out.  My husband convinced me to give the second-year workshops a chance, so I registered in both nonfiction and fiction and waited for September.

Every week, I receive three brand new stories to read and critique for my fiction class and about six or seven new stories to read and critique for my nonfiction class.  The stack of paper is daunting; I read each story once just to get a feel for it; a second time to leave margin edits; a third time to leave more margin edits and to write a detailed response; and sometimes a fourth time to leave more margin edits or to add more to my response.  Then I hand that back to my classmate, and hope that each of them spent as much time and thought on my story, when it's my turn to be critiqued.

Each time I pick up one of the stories (especially the fiction stories), I feel a sense of privilege.  I am one of the first people to read this story—a story that might someday appear in Pages of Stories or The Antigonish Review or the author's first collection of short stories.  This author has trusted me to look at his or her work and offer my opinion—and, believe me, that is no small trust.  It takes courage to hand a piece of writing, especially a piece of fiction, over to someone else and to say, "Can you help me with this?"

The idea of sitting in a room while fourteen other people talked about something I wrote was daunting at first.  I was one of the first students to submit work in my fiction class, and thus one of the first to receive critique.  It was an amazing hour as I listened to what my fellow writers had liked about my story—a piece that I've been working on for a few years now and even had critiqued before—and what they thought could be improved.  Frankly, it was the best critique I've ever received.  I left that class feeling empowered to expand that story to its fullest potential.

My nonfiction instructor challenged each of us to think of ourselves not as students but as apprentice writers.  He said that these workshops would fit better at a technical college than at a university; we are not learning abstract theories, but rather doing hands-on work in our chosen field.  Each of us is gaining skills here that we can put into practice immediately as we work toward becoming professional writers.  I leave every class feeling excited and energized, ready to go home and write.

Organized Chaos

This is what my house looked like the other day, after I'd straightened all the toys and vacuumed:

That's what I wish my house looked like all of the time.  I am a neat freak.  When I was growing up, my room was always spotless—a place for everything and everything in its place.  In fact, when we built my desk, it was designed for specific books and writing supplies that I wanted neatly organized. 
At every job I worked, I got comments about how clean my desk was.  My office space was never cluttered with piles of paper like everyone else's was.  Maybe it was because I was just the lowly summer student or the newest editor on the team so I had spare time when the others were logging overtime hours, but it was more that I just don't like clutter.  I like neat spaces, and lots of space, so I kept my desk empty and organized, just as I kept my room and my truck.

That was five years and two kids ago.  Now, my living room is more likely to look like this:

Living with two little girls is like living with a perpetual hurricane.  I could spend two hours trying to get Sunshine to clean up her toys (even going outside to play with her friends is seldom enough motivation to put all the dolls in the strollers), or I could do it myself in twenty minutes (give or take, by the time I put all the Little People in their house, return the magnets to the fridge, fold the blankets they were hiding under, stack the dollies in the stroller, return the blocks to the bag, pile the purses by the armchair, hide the small toys in the end of the couch, carry the broom back to the toy kitchen...).  And as soon as I've put anything away, Lily decides that's exactly what she wants to play with.

Being a mom appears to mean living in a constant state of organized chaos.  I'd love it if I could always see every inch of my living room floor, if the books were always stacked on the bookshelf, and if every toy had a perfect spot (and would magically retreat there when I waved a wand or said the right words).  That isn't reality, though.  If the toys are scattered all over the floor, then I know that the girls had fun together... that Sunshine built a block tower by herself (a recent accomplishment) or that they pretended they were mommies taking care of babies or that they went for quite a few walks (with frequent "bye byes") with their purses, pretending to be just like me.

So while I could wish for a personal Mrs. Doubtfire like my friend Emily, I try to look at the toys and remind myself that someday, I'll miss this mess.  Someday, I'll have a perfect house once again; until then, I have two happy, amusing daughters who keep me on my toes and remind me that life is about more than a clean house.