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Today’s guest post is from pastor, blogger and encourager Kevin Martineau. Lest you think pastors have it all together, he’s here to tell you that that’s not the case.

Hi! My name is Kevin Martineau. I am the pastor of Port Hardy Baptist Church on beautiful Vancouver Island. I am married and have three daughters. My blog is Shooting the Breeze and you can follow me on Twitter here.

Have you ever struggled with pretending to be someone that you are not or struggled with being what other people think you should be? I have.

For many years, I thought I had to have everything together as a pastor. I thought that all conflict was bad and it needed to be avoided at all costs. I thought that people wanted me to put on my big fake Christian smile and suck it up and pretend that nothing was wrong.

The problem was: SOMETHING was wrong! I was hurting. I was confused. I was anxious. I was stuffing my emotions and my passions. The result was a 3 month medical leave (or forced Sabbatical as I call it now).

During that time off (with the help of many skilled counsellors and much pain) I began to realize how much I had not been living out my true self – the me that God wanted me to be! I hadn’t been living out my passions because of fear and I wasn’t being true to myself, my family and the people that I had the privilege of leading.

This has been a 3 year journey now (and I am sure it is going to be a lifelong journey). I wish that I could say that I have it all together now but I don’t. I still struggle with some of these issues. Thankfully God continues to lead me forward on this journey and recently He brought a great book into my life to further help me. The book is The me I want to be by John Ortberg (who happens to be one of my favourite authors. I have read ALL of his books.)

I am only two chapters into the book and my world is already being rocked. Today, I read this chapter: “The Me I Don’t Want to Be.” In this chapter Ortberg challenges us to come to grips with the rivals that stop us from becoming the person that God wants us to be. They are:

The me I pretend to be.
The me I think I should be.
The me other people want me to be.
The me I am afraid God wants.
The me that fails to be.

This chapter really hit home for me because of all that I have already mentioned. I recognize that I need to do some more evaluation again. I need to drop the “masks” that have come up again and be the person that God wants me to be! I don’t want to go to back to being the me that I don’t want to be!

“Spiritual greatness has nothing to do with being greater than others. It has everything to do with being as great as each of us can be.” Henri Nouwen

Do you struggle to be the person that God wants you to be? What rival stops you the most?

image courtesy of photobucket.com

I won’t say much about today’s guest blogger except to say I came across his writing recently and was impressed that someone so young could so effectively communicate through the written word. I’ll give you a link to his new website at the end of this post, but in the meantime, please read about Duane Scott’s conversation with an older gentleman he met on the jobsite this week:

Recently, our company has been working at a church. Today, the general contractor called and said he would appreciate if we could put a few vent chutes in so they could start putting sheetrock on the ceiling. Having sent all the other crews to different jobs, the only remaining option was for me to do it.

As I began working, I fought back disgruntled thoughts about the inconvenience while fast becoming bored with the repetitive job. That was, until I noticed a peculiar man.

He wore blue Dickie coveralls and on his feet were black dress shoes, looking oddly out of place in the dusty environment. Construction workers bustled around him, hanging sheetrock and noisily moving their scaffolding. It seemed the old man hardly noticed the commotion, but continued to silently sweep the sheetrock dust to the corners.

We all worked along side each other for a few hours, and never did I hear the old man say a word. Curious, I wondered why he was on the job and decided he must be the father to the general manager.

When 4:00 rolled around, the cords were wrapped up, drills and saws were put in their places, and one by one the workers went home for the day. When they bid the old man goodbye, he only responded by the nod of his head.

I continued to staple vent chutes in the trusses and the old man continued to sweep silently. When I was almost finished, I asked him, “Do you work for the general manager?”

“No,” he replied, leaning against his broom. A grin appeared on his wrinkled face, exposing a few missing teeth. With enthusiasm, he said, “I’m a priest at this church.”

With renewed interest, I noticed the black robes he was wearing under the coveralls. I didn’t know what to say, so all I managed was, “Interesting.”

He smiled and said, “That, it is.”

Switching the subject, I said, “Looks like I’ll be back in the morning. I didn’t bring enough vent chutes to finish the job. I’ll be here early enough so I can get ahead of the other contractors. That way, they won’t have to wait on me.”

“That’s okay,” he grinned, “You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t make a mistake or two.”

I laughed. Then jokingly I said, “By being a priest, I doubt you have that problem.”

“Look here buddy,” he chuckled, scolding and pointing a finger in my direction, “I’m still just as human as you are.”

I smiled, feeling a bit uncomfortable until he continued to talk. “I still make plenty of mistakes, and I still get into plenty of trouble.”

“A man your age surely doesn’t get into as much trouble as I do,” I said.

“Maybe not. But you should be glad you get into trouble.”

I raised an eyebrow and looked questioningly at him. Stifling a laugh, I said, “That’s an interesting theory. What makes you say getting into trouble is a good thing?”

“It’s all the trouble we get into in life that makes us realize how much we need God. Nobody could ever get into heaven if they never got into trouble.”

“So you are saying…” I asked, a bit confused, “that I should want to get into trouble?”

“Oh my,” he said, embarrassed, “That does sound like a… excuse my language… a hair-brained idea. What kind of priest am I?” He laughed, “That’s not really what I meant.” Eyeing me from head to toe, he continued, “You’re young. I have a feeling trouble will find you.”

I chuckled at the absurdity of the moment. It isn’t every day a priest looks me over and says I’m bound for trouble. More importantly, it isn’t every day a priest tells me getting into trouble is a good thing.

“It’s like this,” he continued, “God sits up there in His office, and everything you face in life comes across His desk for approval. And He will never put His signature on a trial or temptation that is too big for you to handle. Everything you face is only meant to bring you closer to Him.”

Saying goodbye to the elderly man, I marveled at the wisdom hidden behind his youthful eyes and mischievous grin. I admired his charismatic approach to life, and continued to think about the pearls of wisdom he had bestowed upon my young mind.

Some people curse their bad luck. Others become depressed by their misfortunes. Instead, maybe we should take the advice of the elderly man in the blue coveralls.

If trouble never found us, nor trials ever came, we would never need His grace… and it is only through His grace, that we are saved.

Yes, I like his theory.

-Duane Scott

***

To read more from Duane Scott, visit him at at his website and follow him on the twitter at @duane_scott.

You may be wondering where I find folks to guest blog for me. Okay, maybe you’re not, but I’m going to tell you anyway. Mostly from reading other blogs, and occasionally from the twitter. (Sorry, Facebook. It’s not you, it’s me.) I’ve actually got a fairly sizable list of folks I’m planning to ask. Sadly, that list is in my head, and I keep losing it. Anyway, I’ve been so pleased with all the guest posts so far, and my analytics tell me you have been, too. Damien was one of my twitter finds. I never know how people find me and follow me on twitter, but as long as it’s a real person, I’ll typically follow them back. I’m glad I did so with Damien, because he sent me a really great post.

Demian Farnworth is Managing Editor for an international humanitarian aid organization and blogger for Fallen & Flawed.

Top 10 Worst Creativity Tips of All Time

What do you get when you cross a cranky writer with an opium-induced dream? Nothing to gawk at, normally.

But English poet Samuel Coleridge defied the odds and cranked out an unforgettably creepy poem called “Kubla Khan”.

The only problem is nobody can really tell us what the poem is about. Coleridge couldn’t even do it. And unfortunately generations of poets have followed in Coleridge’s footsteps ushering in an attitude that says true creativity occurs when you alter your mind.

But that’s a terrible idea. And there are nine more really bad ideas on how to jolt your creativity. Let’s take a look at them.

1. Wait for the Muse.
Want to make my skin crawl? Want to watch me clench my fists? Then tell me you can’t write until the Muse moves you. In fact, if you’re a professional, I might hit you. I’ll repent afterwards, but I’ll definitely swing. Professionals write whether they feel like it or not.

2. Get drunk.
Or stoned. Or huff glue. You’ll write some of the most ridiculous stories, paint the most dysfunctional pictures while intoxicated. Funny thing is, they’re masterpieces while you’re high. But sober people will avoid you. However, get them drunk, and you’re a genius. See no. 10.

3. Eat meat.
Long ago some Chinese mystic-artist always ate meat before he fell asleep so he could have great dreams. [Give me a break on the ambiguity. I read it somewhere. Just don’t know where.] I don’t recommend this tactic either…because what happens if your dreams dry up? They will, artist boy.

4. Toy with Twitter.
Despite what social media pundits want you to believe–Twitter is not a inspiration factory. It’s a chaotic cocktail party that will rob you of time. Doesn’t mean you can’t hang out there. I do it myself. Just don’t depend on it for creative ideas. You’ll get sucked away and totally forget what you were doing.

5. Smoke cigarettes.
No one’s flat-out preached that smoking cigarettes inspires. But stroll by any bistro and all the artists and poets and writers will be puffing away. Cigarettes kill, people. Then again, if you don’t care, you are guilty of number 7.

6. Fall in love.
If you depend on the unpredictable, violent emotions of new love **cough, cough, LUST, cough** then you might rock out a killer freshman album. Girls will stalk you. Men will envy you. Mothers will hate you. That is until your sophomore album rolls out. Then they’ll see you for the one-hit wonder you are.

7. Becoming a sadist.
Blame it on the Romantic poets: They were ones who thought a true artist suffered. So what about the thousands of years of creative output before then? And frankly, what the Romantic poets and Co. have created are marginal footnotes to enduring masterpieces.

8. Don’t create.
The Salinger principle of creativity states “you can’t create it without killing it.” You’re guilty of this if you fear that perfect artistic idea will get ruined if you commit it to paper or canvas. Get over yourself and create.

9. Specialize.
I’m guilty of this one. The idea that you will create great work if you do nothing but one thing. This is problematic because some of the best ideas come to us from fields that are far different than ours. Become the explorer. Not the homebody.

10. Thinking you are a genius.
Or a “serious” writer. [Now, where did that come from? See no. 7.] Personally guilty in this category. Picasso said that it took him a life time to learn how to draw like a child. There’s liberty in simplicity like that. And great art.

Listen: This list was generated after twenty years of failing hard in my own attempts at creative writing and a simultaneous ten years of working as a professional writer and editor. I’ve seen these tips and attitudes come from my own mouth and the mouths of other writers. Do any of them ring a bell? Would you add any? And if you’re guilty, don’t worry. So am I.

***

To read more from Damien, visit him at his blog Fallen & Flawed, follow him on the twitter @DFarnworth, or visit his Facebook page:Demian Farnworth.

Spring has sprung! Or at least it’s trying its level best around these parts. To welcome it in, Linda Yezak sent me a guest post on that very subject. (You may remember Linda’s interview with Billy Coffey last week over at Author Culture.)

Linda Yezak lives in Texas and writes romantic comedy. Her novel, Give the Lady a Ride has attracted some attention and is now on an agent’s desk, awaiting its fate. Linda teaches an adult creative writing class, serves as a free-lance editor, and is an editor for Port Yonder Press.

photo by Beckey Z

Right now, as I write this, I can look outside the patio windows and witness nature’s celebration of spring. The squirrels are engaged in a chase and the ducks in a dance that always results in new life within weeks of the festivities. Birds sing sweet love songs, flowers arc their necks toward the sun’s caress, weeds push through the cracks in the concrete or bloom white as powdered sugar in the field.

photo by Beckey Z

After one of the most unusual winters Texas has ever had, this display of warm weather activities seems almost a miracle. In a part of the state that rarely sees snow, we got it three times. At one point, the pond froze over so badly our senior male Muscovy duck, “Drake,” got frustrated trying to get out of it. And today, he’s actively engaged in creating a brood of new ducklings as if the past icy experience never happened.

photo by Beckey Z

That’s the glory of spring. It’s the great eraser, the instant defroster, the immediate heart-warmer. Early spring comes wrapped in a bright green promise of awakening life, of crops in the soil and blooms on the peach trees. Of foals and calves, chicks and ducklings, fawns and ‘coon kittens. Spring revitalizes the soul and quickens the spirit of all of us who huddled in wool coats and plodded through the sodden, sullen days of winter.

photo by Beckey Z

Spring is God’s declaration that He still loves us. Of all the ways He shows His love, the return of life, beauty and color after the winter’s gray hues and bare tree limbs will always be one of my favorites. He showed us the depth of His love when He allowed His Son to be sacrificed for us. He showed us the power of His love through His Son’s resurrection. He shows us the continuation of His love through the annual arrival of spring.

photo by Beckey Z

The Declaration of Love, signed by God’s own hand with vivid colors, and celebrated by His creation with music and dancing and birth and life. How can we not love Him in return?

***

To read more from Linda, please visit her at her blog 777 Peppermint Place. She also created and contributes to Author Culture, and Port Yonder Press. You can follow her on twitter, too: @pprmint777.

***

A very special thanks to Beckey Zimmerman of Zimmages for all the beautiful photographs in this post. She’s an amazing photographer. You should check out some of her other work!

My friend Helen sent me this post last week, and I am honored that she would ask me to post it here on my blog. Thank you, Helen.

From the movie Unstrung Heroes

Sid Lidz: Religion is a crutch. Only cripples need crutches.

Arthur Lidz: A crutch isn’t bad if you need it, Sidney.

Danny Lidz: All of us are cripples in some way.

Sid Lidz: Well, I’m not.

I cried like a child at that point in the movie. I cried because I knew that I do need to lean on God. I cried for all of humanity, who without God, is worse off than lame. I cried for the fictional character Sid Lidz, who is as needy as any other character in that movie, but fails to recognize it. He thinks he is the strong one, but he is zapping the strength from those around them who need God, and know it. He thinks he is the strong one, but he is actually the most pathetic character in the whole movie. I felt sadder for him than anyone else.

This weekend, I went to a wake for the mom of a friend of a friend. I have never met this woman before, but know of her through my friend Irma. My friend Irma has been concerned about her friend, Samantha , for quite a while. She and Samantha work together. She likes Samantha, because Samantha is a nice person, but is concerned about her, because Samantha is does not believe in God. Her excuse seems to be hypocritical Christians. I don’t know the details, so I am unprepared to say whether she is overreacting, or if if her experience was so horrible I’d like to feed a few lions myself. My heart just breaks though, that her reason for not leaning on God is that some people suck.

Anyways, I met her for the first time at her mom’s wake. I wasn’t there to witness to her or anything like that. I just thought that since I had gone through the loss of my own mom a short time ago, and still have issues of my own I am praying through (and have people praying for me as well, thank you very much if you are among them), I’d be of some use. I don’t know how to explain… I find sometimes that looking into someone’s eyes, and seeing that they too feel similar pain helps me feel at one with them. I feel more understood, and therefore comforted. I went there to offer that to her.

Now, I need to tell you before I go on, that I really do love my Momma. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss her. Every day some small thing reminds me of her, and I get all choked up because I miss her, and end up calling someone or emailing them to try to feel better, and not spend another day wallowing in grief. So it surprised me deeply to look into Samantha’s eyes, and see a pain deeper than my own. Surely she couldn’t have loved her Momma more than I did mine. How is that even possible?

We talked a bit. I eavesdropped as I listened to people comfort her. Not one person spoke of hope. At my Momma’s wake, nearly everyone reminded me of mom’s love for God and others, and assured me that my family is one by one reuniting in Heaven, and praising Jesus that we will be together once more, but this time without heartache for all eternity.

People shared fond memories of her mom with Samantha, but I know myself that right now, fond memories bring an ache rather than soothe. There will never be another thing to remember on this Earth. I failed at neatly putting away every instant with her away in my mind as a treasure. One day I will find that isn’t so. I know this from the experience of losing my Dad. Wait. I don’t really mean “losing” him, but being separated from him by the chasm of death.

Samantha, on the other hand, has “lost” her mom. Or at least Samantha believes she has. I do not know if Samantha’s mom was a Christian or not. I do know that Samantha believes that all she has of her mom is in the past. Samantha had mentioned to me that she regrets being with her mom at the last. It was so hard. It gives her painful memories, when memories are all she has of her mom now.

I on the other hand, have regretted not being there when my Momma died suddenly and unexpectedly. I am slowly letting that go. Through prayer, I am slowly coming to believe that God took her when she was ready to go. Would she have been so ready and willing with my tear stained face at her side?

In my own pain and regrets, I have God to lean on. I am thankful for that. I am thankful that Momma and I share a Savior, Jesus Christ. I am not ashamed to lean on His cross. I am not ashamed to be a “cripple”. I have always needed God, and I always will. And yes, I believe that is true for everyone. My heart breaks for those who drag themselves along instead of recognizing their need and leaning on Him. It is only by leaning on Him that we can stand at all.

Proverbs 3:5
Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.

***

To read more from Helen Migon, visit her at Random Musings and follow her on the twitter at @HelenatRandom.

One of the things I really like about blogging and social media (okay – Twitter mostly – I’ve just never much been into Facebook, et. al. – but that’s just me…and I digress).

A few days ago, Elizabeth mentioned on the twitter that she was introducing this new idea on her blog. And I think it’s pretty much brilliant, and artsy and cool. I also thought the more folks involved in it the better. But I’ll let Elizabeth tell you about it:

“It is impossible that you have no creative gift…the only way to make it live and increase is to use it….” says the inspirational Brenda Ueland (1891-1985).

I had the idea rolling around in my brain for a while. Pages in my journal filled with little snippets – a few words strung together, a sentence or two. They dropped in from the clear blue and stood solidly alone, but they held the capacity for a great big story.

And then I thought —

I wonder what stories they’d spark in someone else?

And Snippets was born – a new segment of collaborative art I hope to make a weekly tradition on my blog, Boy Crazy – Finding Clarity in the Chaos. Here’s the idea – each week I’ll wrap things up with a Snippet for you. Imagine a great big quilt hovering out there in our collective imagination. I’m just showing you a patch. Maybe even just a thread.

Here’s where you come in. Drop by on Fridays, read the Snippet and let your creative winds whirl. Come back anytime before Thursday night and in the comments (I’ll start a McLinky if I get enough people playing along), leave a link to your blog, your flickr page, your etsy shop, whatever you have (if it’s a verbal response, you can even leave it right there in the comment box) – and send us over to your interpretation. You can take a photo, paint a picture, design a room, write a poem, a story, a dialogue. Be literal or metaphorical.

There is no right way to do this.

Won’t you come play along? Check out Snippets {edition one} for a few examples, and there’s still time to contribute for this week. Tomorrow (and every Friday), I’ll link to everyone who contributed, maybe feature my favorite interpretation, and I’ll introduce the new Snippet for the upcoming week.

I’d love to see what you come up with!

And a big fat thanks to Katdish for spreading the word! I’m so excited. (Art makes me happy.)

This week’s Snippet (contribute by Thurs evening):

He was more like an onion than an artichoke.
When you peeled back all the layers, there was no heart inside.
And he always made her cry.

Super Exclusive Sneak Peak for Katdish’s readers!! (can you stand the excitement?) Next week’s Snippet (going up Friday):

And when she finally spoke, her words dropped like pebbles in a tin pail.

– elizabeth

***

Cool beans, huh? I know how creative y’all are in so many different areas. So please stop by and contribute to the project. I like artichokes (not so much to each but to decorate with), so I submitted this picture of the table in my front entry:

I can’t wait to see the end result!

Art makes me happy, too!

***

To read more from Elizabeth, visit her at Boy Crazy – Finding clarity in the chaos and follow her on the twitter at @claritychaos.

Today is my friend Peter Pollock’s birthday. I give him a hard time, but in all sincerity, I will say he is one of the kindest, most considerate people I have had the pleasure of “meeting” here on the internets. I have also had the privilege of working with him on a very rewarding project this past year. In celebration of his birthday, I thought I would repost a guest post he wrote for me last year. Happy Birthday PP Bottle!:

Don’t get me wrong, I love ribs. BBQ ribs, when done right, are some of the most convincing arguments I’ve ever seen to the existence of God. Nothing beats ribs, in my opinion.

I also like chicken, carne-asada and tri-tip – (oh tri-tip, you’re so wonderful) but nothing, I mean nothing makes a good barbecue complete like burgers and hot dogs.

Maybe it’s just because when we were growing up burgers and ‘dogs were all we could afford, I don’t know. What I DO know is that I love my burgers and hot dogs.

Now, I’m sure that there are plenty of people out there who will disagree with me. Many people don’t like either burgers or hot dogs. There are also people (like my wife) who like one but not the other.

I don’t understand it personally. I like just about every kind of meat, but burgers and hot dogs, despite their differences, just happen to be my favorites.

Do you have a meat preference? Do you have a meat prejudice?

As I was sitting here salivating over the thought of some great BBQ food, I started thinking just how different burgers and hot dogs are. Burgers are round and flat, hot dogs are long and fat. Burgers are made from beef, hot dogs are made from… other stuff that I don’t want to think about right now. Burgers are dark brown (or black if I forget and leave them on too long) hot dogs are a lighter brownish color. As for the taste… there’s really no comparison, totally different.

Yet both are foods, both are great when cooked on a barbecue grill and both have little or no nutritional value, which is not surprising when they taste so good!

This all reminded me of the Church.

I’m on a journey with the Lord, a journey to rediscover his Church. A Church that I thought I knew but I’m rapidly discovering I don’t know the half of.

We, the Church, the family of God, brothers and sisters born again into the family by Christ’s blood, are a vast and incredibly diverse bunch of people.

We’re as similar (and different) as burgers and hot dogs and, just like I love my meat both circular and tubular, I’m learning that I can love this big, crazy family and everyone in it.

It’s easy for us to say that we don’t like a certain kind of BBQ food and dismiss it as nasty and inedible and we often apply to same ease of dismissal to other Christians. We don’t like something that they do or say or believe so we distance ourselves from them and turn our noses up at them like they’re tofu-burgers.

That’s not what God created the Church to be. Yes we all need a little correction now and again and we all have some bad theology that we believe. None of us are perfect but we’re all God’s children – and Daddy just wishes that we would appreciate our differences and get along instead of hating our differences and constantly fighting.

Let’s all enjoy the huge barbecue that is the Church and appreciate the wonderful diversity that God has built into it.

To read more from Peter (and to wish him a Happy Birthday), check out his blog, Rediscovering the Church and follow him on the twitter: @peterpollock.

Last month I introduced you to Amy Sorrells. If you missed that post, you can find it here. In case any of you are still wondering, “What’s so special about Amy Sorrells?”, I invite you to read the following post from her and see for yourselves:

Professor Moore* looked like Jabba the Hut, jowls of flesh hanging over the collar of his shirt. He watched, smirking, as other co-eds and I jockeyed for seats around the long conference table, Professor’s preferred room arrangement for this, our first college creative writing class.

Until I met Professor, I could always count on my writing pleasing teachers and professors. But assignment after assignment came back with haphazard red-pen scratches. I imagined Professor held my paper for a brief moment before tossing aside.

Professor enjoyed two things: making students cry and picking favorites. I landed in the first group, and was left out of the second like a scrawny girl in a middle school dodge ball game during gym class.

The class favorites wrote about sex, of course, and they wrote about it often. Though I lamented my mediocre scores, I refused to write about something so sacred just for him.

One fateful morning, my alarm clock malfunctioned and I was late for Professor’s class. When I arrived, he stopped class and laid into me with a barrage of insults. On and on he spat about how lazy, irresponsible and stupid I was, daring to enter his class late. Too hurt to hold back tears but to proud to leave, I stayed for the whole class.

My notebook was a soggy mess.

That day, I resolved to please Professor–if not shock the hell out of him–with my writing.

And I did.

I wrote a short story full of violence and deceit, sex and betrayal, blood and fine champagne.

The story disgusted me.

Professor loved it.

I hated Professor for a long time after that.

Years later, I realized my sordid short story paralleled scars of abuse from my childhood. The rage I felt toward Professor was a pivotal breakthrough from flowery, Pollyannic prose, and the beginning of my journey of writing hard, writing real and learning to write well.

I can’t say I agree with Professors tactics.

But I might understand, now, what he was trying to do.

See, good writing involves daring to go to deep and frightening places. Like John Coffey–the man who breathed light and life into dead things in The Green Mile–hearts come alive when we breathe into still and long-forgotten places.

Words become life when writers allow the pen to pull them places no one else wants to go.

Like leper colonies, places in the soul exist where fear hangs like shadows, veiling what we don’t understand and shielding us from disease and pain. And yet, the only way to be real and alive is to allow the pen to touch diseased and painful places.

It is the unsought job of the writer to burst through the gates of leper colonies . . . to run to those who are bandaged and losing limbs . . . to embrace those who smell like rotting flesh . . . and to caress touch-starved hearts until they stop trembling and maybe, just maybe, believe in life again.

Good writers learn to distinguish the honest stain of truth from pencil scratches on paper.

Good writers learn the events in life which enslave us are the ones which set us free.

Good writers endure hours–even days–of depression that come when the pen finds fragile, tender places.

Good writers touch ugly, diseased places, in order to touch ugly, diseased places of others.

Good writers allow the pen to pull them.

To set even one person free.

*This name has been changed for obvious reasons, although I do believe this professor is dead, and has been for quite some time.

***

To read more from Amy you can visit her website: Amy K. Sorrells

on twitter: @amysorrells

and Facebook: Amy K. Sorrells

Last month I introduced you to Amy Sorrells. If you missed that post, you can find it here. In case any of you are still wondering, “What’s so special about Amy Sorrells?”, I invite you to read the following post from her and see for yourselves:

Professor Moore* looked like Jabba the Hut, jowls of flesh hanging over the collar of his shirt. He watched, smirking, as other co-eds and I jockeyed for seats around the long conference table, Professor’s preferred room arrangement for this, our first college creative writing class.

Until I met Professor, I could always count on my writing pleasing teachers and professors. But assignment after assignment came back with haphazard red-pen scratches. I imagined Professor held my paper for a brief moment before tossing aside.

Professor enjoyed two things: making students cry and picking favorites. I landed in the first group, and was left out of the second like a scrawny girl in a middle school dodge ball game during gym class.

The class favorites wrote about sex, of course, and they wrote about it often. Though I lamented my mediocre scores, I refused to write about something so sacred just for him.

One fateful morning, my alarm clock malfunctioned and I was late for Professor’s class. When I arrived, he stopped class and laid into me with a barrage of insults. On and on he spat about how lazy, irresponsible and stupid I was, daring to enter his class late. Too hurt to hold back tears but to proud to leave, I stayed for the whole class.

My notebook was a soggy mess.

That day, I resolved to please Professor–if not shock the hell out of him–with my writing.

And I did.

I wrote a short story full of violence and deceit, sex and betrayal, blood and fine champagne.

The story disgusted me.

Professor loved it.

I hated Professor for a long time after that.

Years later, I realized my sordid short story paralleled scars of abuse from my childhood. The rage I felt toward Professor was a pivotal breakthrough from flowery, Pollyannic prose, and the beginning of my journey of writing hard, writing real and learning to write well.

I can’t say I agree with Professors tactics.

But I might understand, now, what he was trying to do.

See, good writing involves daring to go to deep and frightening places. Like John Coffey–the man who breathed light and life into dead things in The Green Mile–hearts come alive when we breathe into still and long-forgotten places.

Words become life when writers allow the pen to pull them places no one else wants to go.

Like leper colonies, places in the soul exist where fear hangs like shadows, veiling what we don’t understand and shielding us from disease and pain. And yet, the only way to be real and alive is to allow the pen to touch diseased and painful places.

It is the unsought job of the writer to burst through the gates of leper colonies . . . to run to those who are bandaged and losing limbs . . . to embrace those who smell like rotting flesh . . . and to caress touch-starved hearts until they stop trembling and maybe, just maybe, believe in life again.

Good writers learn to distinguish the honest stain of truth from pencil scratches on paper.

Good writers learn the events in life which enslave us are the ones which set us free.

Good writers endure hours–even days–of depression that come when the pen finds fragile, tender places.

Good writers touch ugly, diseased places, in order to touch ugly, diseased places of others.

Good writers allow the pen to pull them.

To set even one person free.

*This name has been changed for obvious reasons, although I do believe this professor is dead, and has been for quite some time.

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To read more from Amy you can visit her website: Amy K. Sorrells

on twitter: @amysorrells

and Facebook: Amy K. Sorrells

I’ve been in ministry for years now, but I officially became lead pastor of our church way back in December of 2008. It has been thoroughly wonderful so far, and I am so blessed at who and how God has put us together as a church here in Juneau, AK to see His purposes accomplished.

I am amazed though at how much I feel like a politician. I have to motivate people, inspire, encourage, make (only) positive changes, share a vision for the future, and deal with people—some of whom feel I have not lived up to one or all of those things. I live and learn while raising a family and working a full-time job besides the one pastoring our church.

One thing I’m not so good at, and for the most part refuse to do, is BS people. I know, I know—a politician who can’t BS is done before he starts, but I think the church has been filled with it for too long (so has politics, but that’s another post). In fact, a lot of churches are so filled you can barely get in the doors on Sunday (nice visual, huh?).

We have tended toward not dealing with things, faking it ‘til we make it (which never seems to come), concealing disappointments because anything else is a “lack of faith,” and so on.

We’ve settled for pretending Christianity instead of living and experiencing it. You didn’t get the job you wanted? Well, let me regurgitate a bumper sticker I read once that I don’t really believe (because my life proves it) but will hopefully make you feel better. You just heard you have Ovarian Flu? It’s okay, just trust God and He’ll make everything better.

I’m not saying this as condemnation, but I know the temptation is always there. It’s easier to BS than to walk with somebody where you don’t want to go.

Romans 15:15 & 16 says, “Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn. Live in harmony with one another. Do not be proud, but be willing to associate with people of low position. Do not be conceited.”

That’s not easy. Neither is Jesus’ command to love each other as He loved us. That’s the point, it’s divine and supernatural work. I love that the verse says, “live in harmony.” We’re not all robots spouting the same clichés and going through the same experiences. We flow together to make something new, that’s what harmony is: diverse sounds coming together.

The beginning of Romans 15 gives us the template to live above the BS. We offer our bodies as living sacrifices. It’s in surrender that we can make a difference and truly walk with people. God’s not buying it and we’re not helping anybody, so let’s put the shovel down.

Just the other day, I was tempted to BS. I was writing about a great church event we had that went very well, but didn’t draw all the people I thought it should have. I wanted to gloss that over and put a “spin” on it then I thought, “why do I want to do this?”

The sad answer that has plagued mankind since the beginning was staring me in the face at that moment: pride.

Pride says I need to be recognized, I need to have all the answers, I need a big church to be important, I need 100 comments on my blog post. That’s why we BS and try to make ourselves look better, but better to whom?

We already have God’s heart and attention, what more could you ask for?

What do you think? Are you guilty of piling on the BS or are you working hard to get it out of the church and/or your lives?

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Behold the power of the sweater vest!

To read more not BS from Jason, check out his blog, Connecting to Impact and follow him on the twitter at @br8kthru.