Into the Fire

Sunday's Offerings

Since, then, we know what it is to fear the Lord, we try to persuade men.

. . .

We are therefore Christ's ambassadors, as though God were making His appeal through us. We implore you on Christ's behalf: be reconciled to God. God made Him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in Him we might become the righteousness of God.

2 Corinthians 5:11;20-21 (NIV)

Saturday Sample . . .

Today I'm featuring writer Mark Harbeson who is working on his first novel. I've had the pleasure of reading the first 20 chapters and have enjoyed Mark's writing and this plot very much. So to initiate this "guest" contributor program, Mark has agreed to send me a sample of his WIP entitled Samaritan. You can learn more about Mark over at his blog "Utter Drivel".

Here is his blurb for Samaritan:

What if you could change the future?

Detective John McCaffrey has a problem. For 12 years, he's served his town proudly, rounding up thieves and murderers and bringing them to justice. But now, he's seeing things. A robbery. A suicide. A fatal accident. Is he imagining things as his partner insists? Or are these images real . . . visions? When a robbery occurs in the exact time, place and manner he predicted, John discovers that he may have the power to prevent these calamities. But what is the source of the visions? And why do these random events all seem to be pointing to a future tragedy?

And here is the excerpt:

My throat felt a little dry. I’d probably had too much caffeine at dinner. I’d regret it later on when I was trying to get to sleep. I went into the kitchen to get a glass of water. I grabbed a glass from the cupboard and went to the sink. Some people spent a lot of money getting water filters, purifiers, and other gadgets to make their water cleaner, purer, and taste better. Not me. I had straight, unfiltered tap water. I just didn’t think water was worth spending that much money on.
I filled my glass and leaned against the counter, taking a sip. It felt good on my throat, but I still felt dry. I drank some more. I downed the rest of the water. No change.
I looked into the living area. The TV seemed to be glowing unusually bright. The picture looked crisp, as though my set had suddenly grown a high-end digital plasma screen. I looked around the kitchen. The filaments of the light bulbs were glowing brighter, burning their images onto my retinas. I could hear them hissing and crackling as they burned bright. The hum of the appliances around me grew louder, producing a low rumble almost like an airplane was landing in my kitchen. My mind made note of all these things, and then made the instant connection.
It was happening again.
I could feel my heart pounding through my chest, reverberating through my ribs. The picture on the TV screen seemed to slow down, almost moving frame by frame. The announcer’s voice deteriorated into a deep, unintelligible moan. And then I began to see the familiar white light dancing in the center of my eyes, accompanied by the unearthly crashing sound. I felt every muscle in my body tense up as I awaited whatever sights lay before me, knowing I had no choice but to watch, to listen, to experience a second supernatural sight. The light grew, overtaking everything else in my field of vision, temporarily blinding me as the crashing noise filled my eardrums, to the point where I didn’t know if I could stand it any longer, when it was suddenly replaced by—
Snowflakes. Just a few dozen or so, lazily floating about in the cool night air. I could feel the cold air surrounding me, and I heard a rustling sound. A light breeze was moving through trees. I looked all around. There were trees on a snowy hillside, overlooking some water. I heard a small rumble coming from somewhere below me. A road was cut into the side of the hill, through the forest, and it led to a bridge nearby. There looked to be a small pond on one side of the bridge, and a large lake on the other side, with the bridge connecting forested areas. The bridge seemed to be one of those old park bridges, constructed of timber beams and stone masonry. When I saw the timber railings along each side of the bridge, forming a simple truss design while blending aesthetically with the forest area, I knew exactly where I was. Sutter’s Pond. About three miles outside of town. The small pond was named for on old saw mill that had once stood on its banks, forming the economic backbone of our town for decades. The rumbling sound that I heard was a spillway located under the bridge. Water flowed from the pond over a twenty-foot drop into the county reservoir, which was the larger body of water. Snow had recently been plowed from the road onto the shoulders. The shoulders carried onto the bridge and provided a convenient place for snow to be plowed and piled next to the bridge railings.
The road was deserted. The night air was cold and quiet. Then, down one end of the road, there was a noise. And then, suddenly, I was further down the road, watching a white pickup truck fishtailing wildly on the road. It moved erratically back and forth on the road, barely staying on the pavement. I saw an old man behind the wheel, obviously drunk and unable to control the truck. I was amazed that he didn’t fly off the road and into a tree.
Then I saw another car, and the horror of what was about to happen began to dawn on me. It was a green Honda, coming in the opposite direction, approaching the bridge with no knowledge of the danger that was hurtling closer with every moment. I glimpsed a woman in the driver’s seat. She had long red hair and looked tired. It looked like she was saying something, and then I saw—
No.
A child. A young boy, maybe six or eight years old, sitting on a booster seat in the back of the car. He was yawning and struggling to stay awake. A mother and her son, maybe returning home from a late night out. Or traveling somewhere, nearing the end of the road. Only that end was going to be sooner than they expected.
They came around the final curve, approaching the bridge. The pickup truck on the other side swerved this way and that, tires squealing as it moved in haphazard fashion. For a moment, it looked as though he may plunge straight off the road, down a short slope and into the reservoir. But amazingly, the driver righted himself and managed to stay on the pavement once again. Both vehicles continued hurtling toward one another.
The Honda reached the bridge first. It was then that the woman saw the truck, fast approaching. The pickup crossed the centerline as it entered the bridge, heading straight for the Honda down the wrong side of the road. Instinctively, the woman slammed on the brakes and swerved to her left. The drunk pickup driver’s reaction time was slower, yet he must have registered the danger on some semi-conscious level, as he hit the brakes and swerved as well. But there was no way for him to adjust fast enough. He swerved to his right.
He turned into the Honda, slamming into it broadside. It should have stopped there. The Honda should have been trapped between the timber bridge railings and the pickup truck. But instead, the Honda was pushed into the snow piled high on the shoulder. The slope of the snow and ice pile vaulted the car up in the air, and for one fleeting moment it seemed to hover there, as if unsure where to land. The car came crashing down onto the bridge railing, leaning precariously over the edge. The entire front half of the car was over the bridge railing, as well as a portion of the back seat. I could see one tire caught against the railing, holding the Honda in place. The other back tire rested on top of the snow pile. The pickup had come to rest just next to it, front end wedged firmly in the snow. The pickup’s horn was blaring continuously—the driver must have been knocked unconscious on the wheel. Somehow, I could hear the screams of the child in the backseat of the car. There was no sound from the mother.
Helpless, I could only stand as a silent witness as the tragedy played out before me. The bridge railing began to creak and groan under the weight of the car. It was an old historic bridge, the kind that park lovers and historic societies refuse to let anything more modern and less attractive replace. The timber railings had probably last been refurbished years ago, and since that time had been left to slowly rot through countless amounts of wind and rain. I heard a loud snap, and the car slid a bit toward the edge. The child’s cries became louder and more hysterical, to no avail. The pickup truck’s horn continued to drown them out. Another crack, and the car slid a bit more. The railing continued to groan.
It was fighting a losing battle. All at once, the timber shuddered and split under its burden. Automobile and rotted wood plunged together down twenty feet to the icy water below. The car hit with a large splash, sending fountains of spray everywhere. It seemed to float for a few moments on top of the reservoir. But family sedans are not made to be watertight. It took on water rapidly, sinking slowly under the surface. Soon, only the roof was visible, and then it too went under, descending into the frigid depths. The car’s headlights cast an eerie glow under the water, as if to mark its final resting place. Then the water reached the car’s electrical system, causing a short and extinguishing the lights. The reservoir was dark once more.
I recoiled in shock as the white light again flooded my vision, and the unearthly noise filled my ears. A sound of shattering glass and a sharp pain thrust me suddenly back into the familiar surroundings of my kitchen. My hand hurt. I looked down and saw that I was bleeding.
I had crushed the glass in my hand. I opened my clenched fingers and let the glass shards fall to the floor. I stared at my hand dumbly for a few moments, breathing hard and trying frantically in my mind to comprehend what I had just seen. I was sweating, and trembling slightly. There was a small piece of glass stuck in a cut in my hand. I pulled it out, grimacing at the pain. Then I ran my hand under water in the sink. I had a first-aid kit in a cabinet next to the sink, and I pulled it out and found an ace bandage to wrap around my hand. I closed my fist tight around it in order to put pressure on the wound.
I looked around my apartment. Everything was as it was before. Nothing had been disturbed. I gathered my bearings, and then tried to focus.
There was going to be an accident. At the Sutter’s Pond bridge. A woman and her child were going to die. But when?
I remembered in my previous vision that I had taken note of the clock on the wall in the deli. I had known exactly when the robbery would occur. But there were no clocks on the road. I didn’t even know if it was the right date. And then I remembered: the snow. There had been a light snow falling, just like I had encountered on the way home from dinner. The accident was going to happen tonight. A sense of urgency seized me, and I shuddered involuntarily.
I grabbed my coat from the couch. There was so much I still didn’t understand. I knew the visions were real. But I didn’t know where they were coming from. I didn’t know why they were coming to me. At this point, I only knew one thing: I had to go. There was no way I was going to sit idly by. Not this time.
I bolted for the door.

Taken from Samaritan (2003-200?; written by Mark Harbeson)

A Replica of Love

Those of us familiar with the 13th chapter of 1 Corinthians know it is often referred to as “the love chapter” because the words of the Spirit of Truth written through the apostle Paul define “love” in no uncertain terms. And anyone who reads that definition is dismayed to find he falls unconscionably short of being able to live up to the meaning of that precious word.

So what about “love”? Is there such a thing as “love at first sight”? Would just any one of us lay down his/her life for a friend? Is it love that compels someone to rescue a stranger from an oncoming car only to be killed in the process of saving the other person? The age old question begs, “What is this thing called ‘love’?”

The Word of God gives us the detailed breakdown of what love is, how it is recognized, and what it accomplishes in its fullness. If you can read through the love chapter and not come out of it with head hanging in shame, you must not get it. Love is impossible.

Pure love is what caused a crucified, battered, beaten beyond recognition Christ to ask His Father to forgive them and us for what we’d done to Him even as they jeered and mocked Him. Love for a creation gone mad with hatred, clothed in sin, wanting someone else’s blood to drip in death to prove their prowess and power at killing a man who proclaimed Himself God. A man who’d done no wrong. A man who gave His life but would never stay dead.

I am utterly convinced that without Jesus as our Savior, we are unable to love at all. What many people have without Him is a replica of love. And some don’t even have that. They have this narcissistic relationship with someone who will somewhat adequately supply what they think they need. Left to ourselves without God in us, we are selfish, self-serving, self-centered individuals who are always irrefutably trying to satisfy our flesh. It doesn’t matter whether we do it through a career, philanthropy, marriage, parenthood, duty, or martyrdom—without the Holy Spirit teaching us how to set ourselves aside, we might manage to do or accomplish a few noble things in this life, but in the end, sadly, they won’t matter. Not to God. Because He would’ve looked upon the heart--the miserable condition of selfish motivation and rebellious control of a life unyielded to its creator and unwilling to embrace the provided Savior would be enough to speak of resistance to His saving grace and determine a destination separated from Him.

Love is God, or as the Bible says: “God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God and God in him.” (1 John 4:16 NIV) Without Him, the replica is an imperfect copy of the real thing. It’s a fake. It’s incomplete. It cannot be what it was designed to be.

You think you have this thing called love, but without Jesus, it’s a facsimile. The real wonder of love is that we can attain any part of it at all, but, of course, the only way is through Him. Even then, it’s difficult. Perfection is beyond us on this earth, but one day that love will be our driving force. We will shed these fallen forms for eternal bodies and realize the joys of perfect love in heaven.

In the meantime, love deep through our Lord. Ask for His heart on the matter of love. Ask Him to love through us. Ask for the refining process of His love. Immerse yourself in His never-ending love which holds nothing against you, which always welcomes you, which compares nothing to you, and which is always available to you. What could be better than pure love?

Father, teach me daily how to love like you do. Help me to love more, love more deeply, love without attachment or condition. And let me feel your love in an ever increasing amount. I’m desperate for it. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

Objectives

As Christians who write fiction, we establish objectives. Referring back to the interview with Robert Liparulo, he said his only “agenda” was to entertain those readers who want to enjoy the suspense/thriller genre without the objectionable sexual scenes and vulgar language of secular novels. Make no mistake: he accomplishes that in spades.

Other Christian writers offer their stories with the intent of ministering to their predominantly Christian audience by the inclusion of layered spiritual truths in either contemporary or historical settings. They undoubtedly hope the appeal of their novels will stretch outside the framework of the redeemed body of Christ, but they know the majority of their audience will be fellow Christians.

Then there are those fiction writers for God who set the goal at reaching the lost with their work. They aim their stories as arrows pointing to the Creator or the Savior, and they use various genres in an attempt to capture their readers’ attentions and literally suggest the reality of the one true God. Challenging task. Not easily measured in terms of success.

We can say without condescension that novels should entertain, but by “entertain” I’m not implying frivolity. Drama entertains, unresolved conflicts entertain, interesting, comical, cynical, or demonic characters entertain. But the very nature of “Christian” fiction not only entertains, it ministers at some level—often in totally unpredictable ways.

And isn’t that the beauty of it all? That words we write can actually cause someone to laugh, to consider, to weep, to be startled or surprised or buffaloed by a plot twist? Stories can entertain while ministering the truth of a magnificent, benevolent, and holy God who loves so deep that He gives His Son as a sacrifice for the redemption of the human race. Jesus Christ willingly goes to the brutal death of the cross to pay the wages of sin and provide a perfect way for salvation to a corrupted people—if they accept His sacrifice and give their lives back to God to use for His glory.

The message is infallible—it’s perfect. There can be no better objective to write about. We need His creative abilities to keep that message fresh and real and honest. We need His anointing to be able to communicate the message effectively within the various genres. To keep it from being cliché. Because the message is magnificent. It’s worthy of our best efforts. The message is why we’re here. The message is to be shared.

Father, direct my objectives. Lead me in all my writing endeavors. Let the message be clear and effectual, real and entertaining, deep and ministerial. With your touch let the words come alive and mean something of lasting value to those who read them. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

Summer Song . . .

The beauty of sun encourages and invites outdoor activities where I live. It’s not always hot here in the summer, so when it is, those of us who treasure those days of summer heat tend to find a way to get out in it. Although our side of the mountains has more humidity than the more desert climate of the other side of the state, we don’t have much compared to some of the southern or eastern seaboard states. It’s certainly bearable. Not oppressive. A lot of us only have air conditioning in our cars. I have never used mine, preferring the open window breeze. However, when we vacationed briefly on the other side of the state last year, we used the AC in my husband’s truck most of the time.

The song of summer plays anew in my heart. There’s something about the solid blue and hot rays. It’s hard to be sad in the sunshine.

Remembrances of summers past pulse through my memory—somehow they’re more intense, more romantic, more adventure-filled with summer and simmering and sweat wrapped around them. The smells come alive—a whiff of a forgotten scent ignites a rush of revelry, thoughts of long ago, smiles, laughter, daring, energy, and hidden desires.

“Summertime . . . and the livin’ is easy.”

Life is never easy, is it? It goes along and often there is harshness and ugliness and unfathomable pain. Sometimes we ourselves are responsible for those things, and other times we are blindsided by their cruelty. The questions demanding “Why?!” assert themselves and press against us as we weep. Who can blame us when we seek escape?

Let us find our fun wherever and whenever the Lord allows. Let us rejoice in those times when we can find solace and playfulness in Him, for Him, and provided by Him. Let’s remember Him in those places of absolute release. Let’s invite Him to lead us to those memories intended for eternity, the ones that bring calming comfort, remind us of courageous efforts, gallant romance, and hilarious merriment.

“Summer breeze . . . makes me feel fine . . .”

Create your own summer song . . .

Father, thank you for the sunshine and hot summer days. Thank you for a season when fruit grows and flowers ignite the landscape with all kinds of colors, images, and designs. Your beauty is glimpsed in so many places, so many things. Up in the sky, down in the depths, throughout the land . . . who can escape who you are? You are endless, great and awesome, holy and just, good and perfect. Thank you. Fill me up with the essence of your beauty in the Son and the fullness of your Spirit. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

Tuesday Trappings . . .

Or trippings . . .

Bloggers who've been at it awhile are taking breaks all over the blogosphere. Who can blame them? It's challenging to keep up even on a once a week schedule.

Others of us just getting started, more or less, are noticing the demands of this little pet. Scratching at the door wanting in or out . . . sometimes the time is there and we gladly make the sidetrip out the door to take the walk into communicating all kinds of thoughts, comments, essays, or fun and frivolous stuff. Other times we feel the nag, nag, nag of writing or collecting something to POST on this darn thing. We wonder why we thought it was a good idea to obtain this little monster.

But we know. We remember. And we press on. Not even because we believe someone will benefit from it or enjoy it or even visit it, for cryin' out loud. No, there are a few of us out here who need to write some things down, and this is as good a way as any. Expression, when done appropriately, can be therapeutic. It enhances observations and provides clarity to those thoughts which escape our conscious search. Suddenly, it evolves out of the words thrown down in an effort to keep up with the blog entry.

So, it'll be a year in August for me here at "Into the Fire". Wow. Carrying on. Summer breaks in store? Who knows? I'll try to keep it fresh, an occasional sanctuary, or something not quite the same as . . . as before or as the norm or as whatever feels out of place? We shall see . . .

Father, you are the refresher, the One who gives rest to weary souls, the Living Water that quenches nagging thirst. I come to you for my inspiration and perseverance. Pour into me from your vast supply. I welcome you always. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

Finally, it clicked.

Don’t you just love it when things come together in your mind bringing you satisfaction for a season and resolution to an understanding that was just beyond your grasp lurking in the neverland of your questionable brain power? Now that’s a question for ya.

Professional author. What does that term mean to you? To most of us it means the writer makes a living off the books he/she writes. It usually means they are “accepted” in the publishing industry because of their work, sales, and, because of those, their “name”. In the simplest of definitions, it means they get paid to write. Or it could mean they write books and have been published but might not yet make a living off their writing.

But I have just today discovered it also means that for the most part, they play by the rules. Whatever those rules are. Since this site primarily addresses Christian fiction writing, that is what I’m discussing (with myself). The current rules state almost didactically to grab a reader within the first 5 pages and hold him tight for the first 20 and then wrap it up one way or another in 80-100,000 words. Now that word count doesn’t apply to all writers or books or publishing houses, but these are your basic rules. Another is “Show, don’t tell.” Others are “active over passive” verbs, few adverbs, tension/conflict on every page, don’t identify the speaker with descriptive words (usually adverbs), etc. You get the drift. If you can do all that within a good story and get a contract/published, you will be a professional author.

So . . . what do you do when you write differently, don’t play by the rules, and have a struggle with the formula for successful novels?

It depends on your convictions. Play by the rules and make sure your writing is technically good, write a compelling story within a desired genre and go for it. If you can. Because, more than likely, if you are a good writer and willing to modify that story to fit the rules where you might’ve veered away from them a bit, you will be published. Subjective business as it is, if you enter this game with talent and are willing to work at adhering to the basic demands, chances are you’ll succeed in getting a contract. Predicting sales is another thing altogether.

Obviously if you can’t play by the rules, chances are you won’t be allowed in the game. That makes sense. And let me just say this: there is absolutely nothing wrong with these rules. They’re sensible, in most cases desirable, and realistic, too. Nothing wrong per se with the rules. Or those who support them. Or those who abide by them. Or those who are successful with them. Or those who are trained to govern them.

However, some of us can’t play by them. Not because we don’t want to or disapprove of them but rather because creatively we are stifled by them. Frustrated with them. Twisted up inside because of them. Unsatisfied when we read so many of them. Those are the reasons.

When a person works hard at his craft in order to honor the Lord, when he writes those stories given specifically to him in a different way than what is considered the norm, he will either continue to write his “passion” and establish his voice because it is the best he can produce, or he will abandon his passion and write to satisfy the rules, valuing the “professional” adjective before “author” as the ultimate goal. Or he will do both. Or he will do neither.

This is all probably very obvious to most of you, but it finally clicked for me today. I mean, I knew I broke all or at least most of the rules at times with my novels, but now I understand that I write this way because this is what I like to read the most and only occasionally find. As a writer, the end product has to satisfy . . . me. (After, and above all, the Lord, which means He gives me the story and expects me to write it in obedience to Him.)

Maybe it’s so plain, it’s pathetic to discuss it, or perhaps you look at this drivel and wonder what the heck is she talkin’ about, but, hey, it’s a pretty big deal to me. Another revelation in my ongoing struggle to define my writing. An addition to the epiphany of discovering I write sagas. A necessary piece to my complicated puzzle. All this after prayer and soul searching. That’s why it matters in my little writing world. It had to make sense to me—I had to understand it.

And, as with most things, there are exceptions. I’ve given you the basic rules which I’ve encountered along the journey. The recommended rules, if you will. And, yes, I’ve seen them broken but not that often and usually not by a first-time author. These are the rules to play by if you want to submit a manuscript to gain a publishing contract. I know, why else would you bother? Well, a lot of people (myself included in the beginning) enter into the game without any understanding of “the rules”, so to have even a basic understanding of them helps. That way you can determine for yourself how much you need to modify or revise or rewrite your concept of trying to get published.

A writer has to be who he is. Ultimately, he has to decide if the rules will make him better or will simply make him publishable, or both. The rules, although valuable and beneficial, will not be the end-all cure-all definition of a good or decent writer, but the satisfaction of those rules will more than likely lead to a publishing contract for a talented writer willing to abide by them under the current trend in Christian publishing.

Father, all I can do is be thankful to you for making me who I am, to be so grateful that you don’t give up on me in any area of my life, that you are always urging me forward, to draw closer to you, to increase my obedience to your desire for my life. If I delight in you and your ways, I will receive the desires of my heart—which keep pointing to more, more, more and swifter obedience to you. Help me always, Lord. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

Sunday's Offerings

For the appeal we make does not spring from error or impure motives, nor are we trying to trick you. On the contrary, we speak as men approved by God to be entrusted with the gospel. We are not trying to please men but God, who tests our hearts. You know we never used flattery, nor did we put on a mask to cover up greed--God is our witness. We were not looking for praise from men, not from you or anyone else.

I Thessalonians 2:3-6 (NIV)

Saturday Sample . . .

Remembrance

I was 8 years old when I had an experience with Jesus Christ. I had run off to the woods behind our house, and he was waiting for me when I stopped out of breath, and started kicking up the pine needles and summer moss, my rough hands wiping the tears that weren’t supposed to fall for a boy my age. I picked up a dead branch and was about to heave it into the thicker underbrush and tree cover when I saw Him leaning against a thick fir.
I backed up so startled I tripped over forest debris and fell in my clumsiness, then scrambled awkwardly to my feet, never taking my eyes off Him. He didn’t move, but it was like I could feel the concern in His eyes. Those eyes were reaching out to me, although I’m sure his hands made no gesture in my direction. When I connected my fearful eyes with His, I stopped my thrashing and stood bolt upright. Still as the air which had become inordinately silent. I wanted to rub my eyes, sure they were lying to me. Almost like that other time.
I thought I glimpsed Him or Someone once before when I was 6 years old and hid myself in my bedroom closet just because I felt so alone. I wasn’t, but I ached that way. I remember I began to cry. It was when the muffled sobs erupted, a comforting hand rested on my shoulder accompanied by a whisper I couldn’t understand other than the scare I normally would have endured was absolutely absent, and the relief which pulsed through me gave me a calmness I couldn’t fathom in my young heart. I wanted to remain there then, no longer because of despair but because of this ally I’d somehow acquired. That time I looked toward where I thought the end of the hand would be, and all I saw was a glimpse, almost like an outline when you trace something on sheer paper. And although the peace of that comforting hand remained, the image was quickly gone.

Taken from Nightcrawler (tentative title) (2007--WIP by Nicole Petrino-Salter)

The Passion . . . of Nicole

Recently there have been some posts on various blogs about the authors of those blogs expressing interesting levels of inferiority in certain areas of their lives. How many times have we all visited that place in our psyches where we shudder at God’s inimitable creation of . . . us? We always tell ourselves that physical appearances aren’t what it’s all about (yeah, right), and that we can make up for what we lack in glamour or beauty or handsomeness or athleticism with . . . oh whatever. Most of the time we’re lying because the majority of us insecure people have set up icons of preferred beauty, manliness, etc., ad nauseum. The scale, of course, is unattainable without hundreds of thousands of dollars of massive reconstruction and makeover wizardry. Pathetic, right?

Maybe that’s why passion is so important to me. I cannot remember a day of not feeling inferior when I was growing up. The enemy of my soul (unbeknownst to me) tortured me with it from a very young age, and, truthfully, I have yet to completely shed it. There was no real reason for it either. If ever a little girl needed encouragement and love and reinforcement from two parents, I got it. Unlike many who have valid reasons for “feeling” inferior because of receiving just the opposite or worse from their parents or step-parents, I had it all. I think the inferiority thing transcended looks and accomplishments as I peer back at it in hindsight. I think it had to do with the innate unworthiness of the human condition. I just didn’t understand it back then, and the demon of inferiority was quick to translate it in untruthful ways.

I’ve never had the privilege—or the burden—depending upon how you view it, of being beautiful. I’ve had brief, very brief, moments of feeling beautiful on very rare occasions. I was blessed with my Dad’s blue eyes, although his were a brighter blue, naturally curly hair which I tried to straighten, of course, in high school. I do like my lips—they’re full and probably my best facial fixture. Let’s not even discuss the body. Especially now.

What I have always had is passion. I love passionately. I am devoted passionately. I invest passionately. Anything that is “worth” my attention gets it passionately. Any of you who are passionate people know that sometimes you share your passion with only One. The One who gave it to you. Other times you share it with your best friend, your mate, another professional, an acquaintance where your mutual passion is all you share, or perhaps an internet group of “friends”. Regardless of who shares it, you could spend a lot of time doing it, discussing it, making time to engage in it, acquiring money to venture into it, and on and on. Passion can be a wonderful thing.

Passion gives me a sense of value. It helps me to find perspective. It hinders me from focusing on what I don’t have . . . such as startling beauty, the physical fitness I used to have from doing the racetrack gig. It reminds me of purpose and leads me to perspective. Passion forces me to “see” deeper than the surface of life’s appearance. It makes my writing matter—if only to me and my Lord.

Passion is the blessing I need to carry on, to find value, to “feel” worthy of sharing Jesus however I can find to do so. Passion encompasses the relief that consumes me when I visit the past and arrive at the present. Jesus Christ lived, loved, and died passionately. Doing the same is the least and best I can do.

God, you are the reservoir of passion. I cannot invent it without your infusion of it. You are worthy of great passion and devotion. Let me never lose either. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

Thursday thoughts.

The trouble with learning is it never stops.

And the more I learn, the more I do not know.

And the more I understand, the less I can figure out.

Vast—you are. In every way.

How can simplicity be so utterly complex?

At your feet. Not low enough. Bowed to the ground—face in dirt. Not low enough.

So much you’ve given. Never to be repaid. Impossible.

Inadequate in every way but infused with your Spirit in order to breathe life. To be sustained. To survive in victory. To deliver your hope. Useful through you.

Father, thank you for my life, for saving me from a life of sin, for redeeming this lost soul and making a way to use me for your glory. Thank you for your love, your direction, your grace, your correction, your perfection. Continue to show me your ways, Lord. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

Can't believe it . . .

I just finished Austin’s Boyd’s The Proof after reading his first offering The Evidence. There’s one more to go titled The Return in the moderate Sci-Fi series.

I am not a sci-fi or fantasy fan at all. Oh yeah, I’ve seen my share of Star Trek episodes and even films, and my husband and son get a kick out of alien films, but usually I don’t. So, it’s kind of strange that I decided to buy Austin’s first effort, but I’m sure the reason for it is, as a reader, I love authenticity. Even when it’s over my head (no pun intended).

One of the reasons I loved Tom Morrisey’s In High Places was because it felt real. I had to grab the ol’ dictionary to determine how to pronounce those climbing tools, but the scenes and the rocks themselves were integral to the story. Reading Randy Singer’s stories convey the same sense of realism whether it’s behind the scenes with lawyers leading up to trials or with Judge Oliver Finney from behind the bench. And when you engage a Brandilyn Collins story, you know that even though you’re going to encounter some ugly evil, the details in uprooting whoever it might be will be genuine. Robert Liparulo’s wild adventures dare to stretch the boundaries, but they “feel” possible and threatening as you’re zooming along with his characters.

Austin Boyd is more than qualified to write about space travel. I won’t spoil his credentials for you, but they’re impressive. He’s written an intriguing tale, and the middle edition leaves you impatient for the final book. He gives you ample clues to keep you savvy but still doesn’t reveal the source of all the intrigue. The second book causes a few gut wrenches—the first one you don’t see coming, at least I didn’t. The second one felt too horrific. There were only a couple small glitches in the plot, not significant enough to cause distrust or irritation. More like it took a little too long to develop the answers to the questions raised. I’ll be anxious to find out how this all goes down and how he intends to wrap it up.

Poised to buy book number 3 in a Sci-Fi series—I can’t believe it.

Father, you are the Creator of all things true and real and perfect. Thank you for building creativity into your people in so many wonderful ways. Help me to always use whatever you’ve given me for your glory. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

Adults being adults.

I have heard pastors preach from the pulpit that if it isn’t safe viewing for the children, how could it possibly be acceptable for parents to watch? Forgive me . . . but give me a break. I no longer need a burp rag or a bib when I eat (most of the time anyway). I no longer crawl, and I’m potty trained. I know my time tables and can do long division. My vocabulary is fair, and I’ve been married and have had children. (That means I’ve experienced . . . sssshhhh . . . sex.)

When our son was young, we monitored the television like a hawk. It wasn’t on often, and when we wanted to watch something for adults, he was either in bed or otherwise occupied. There were a lot of “McGee and Me” films when he was ready for fun movies of his own.

The point is I think it’s absurd to teach that adults cannot seek entertainment in television or films made for adults. Yes, they must be wise in their choices and continue to guard what their children observe as well as their own eyes and hearts, but explain to me how it could be wrong for adults to view “The Passion of the Christ”, for example, without taking their children to see it until they are able to assimilate the horror of Christ’s death.

There are many offensive films and television shows made today. Films rated PG-13 are not generally suited for even 16 year olds, let alone 13 year olds. However, every now and then you will find a rare “R” rated film suitable for young people—in other words, it doesn’t have a bunch of repulsive language or explicit sex.

Some people will say, “I have to hear bad language all day at work—why would I want to listen to it in a movie or watch entertainment which includes it?” That’s an excellent question, and for that person it’s an easy decision.

My husband, son, and I went to a critically acclaimed movie directed by an actor we’ve enjoyed watching in other films. The rating was “R”, but even that “R” didn’t prepare us for the vulgarity and obscenity which we walked out of shortly after viewing just a few minutes of the film. No way were we going to sit through a film which attempted to capture every putrid sin on the planet in the first 15 minutes.

Each person has to conclude what is acceptable for him to watch. To be an adult Christian means you are accountable to the Lord for your decisions. You know that some things are not suitable for you, and you know the reason(s) why. You also know that it’s not up to you to determine what is suitable for your neighbor unless they seek your opinion on the matter.

I respect a pastor who is honest with his congregation about the dangers of corruption and temptations on the television or at the movies, but don’t assume that adults cannot be trusted to view either medium beyond the age limits of their children. Not only is that offensive, it’s inane.

Father, we are living to please you. We want to make decisions to honor you. Help us to be discerning without being legalistic. Help us to understand what you desire for us. In our areas of talent, may we bring joy and pleasure to you, honoring you and blessing you, being ambassadors of your love and forgiveness. Thank you, Jesus, for setting us free from sin and help us to steer clear of it, not allowing it to ensnare us in our moments of weakness. Help us instead to turn to you and remember that we live for you and because of you. Holy Spirit, convict our hearts when we lean toward wrong behavior and desire evil. Be strong in us, and may our ears be tuned to your voice and urging. We love you, Lord, in the Name of Jesus.

Stark Realizations . . .

It comes early for most of us . . . those inklings that either we’re in with a “special” group of people or that we’re not. I did a post on “cliques” awhile ago. I remember in 6th grade, before “middle school” came into existence, there were four of us girls who sat up in the first four desks of the room, first and second seats on the right side of the room. I remember the three other girls’ names and what they looked like. We were friends, and we were teacher’s pets. We knew it. The rest of the class knew it, too, I assume.

Zoom ahead to 7th grade, the worst year of my life. Seriously. EVERYbody changed but me. New school—junior high school. New people from different schools. A loonngg walk to school. An accelerated math class where I didn’t belong. I started gritting my teeth and chewing my fingernails in and because of that class. My straight A reputation was lost in that class. I was no longer in an elite group.

In 8th grade we moved quite a ways to the north end of my city. Even a new school in junior high wasn’t going to be any more traumatic than 7th grade had been. Fortunately, in the new homes going up in a neighborhood with older established homes, there were a couple of friends to replace my longtime closest friends I had to leave in that familiar neighborhood, in the home of my youth. (I still have recurring dreams that take place in that house.) I imagine the new school was typical. I had all kinds of friends. I was somewhere in the middle tier of the social strata. Being horse crazy gave me my own persona, and I found one unique friend who shared the frenzy.

High school was yet another “awakening”. Somewhere between sophomore and senior years I met enough people to know many, be very close to some, gain a boyfriend from the high school I would’ve attended had we not moved, and in my senior year got elected to Senior Class Secretary. One might have thought I was definitely “in” because of it, but there was yet a higher level of the social caste system, and I figure I was somewhere just below the top rung.

College was a turning point in my life. I had become engaged to my boyfriend but realized I wasn’t ready for a commitment. I was leaning toward the hippie crowd, and I hated school while doing well in it.

Quit, went to work in retail, saved money to go to Europe with a friend, came back, went back to school for a quarter, found the racetrack and stayed there for over 30 years.

When I went to the racetrack as a “city girl”, I stood out—as an outsider. Back then, most of the females on the track were daughters or family members of horsemen. It’s different now, but back when I first came to the track females weren’t allowed to spend the night or live on the track. Anyway, I was “different”. I had to prove myself. That I could belong. In spite of “not fitting in”. I was a bit flamboyant—hey, I’ve always been a drama queen. But I worked hard, took it all in, learned, learned, learned because I loved those horses. I wanted this.

Many years later, there are still people who don’t want others to fit in. And there are still people who want to fit in so badly they will compromise what they thought they believed in just to do so.

Granted, there are those places and occupations that don’t accommodate just anyone. Not everyone belongs at NASA, not everyone can act, write, or be an engineer or a doctor. There are places we have to realize are not for us—we don’t have the talent or skills, and, quite frankly, the Lord hasn’t programmed us to do certain things we might think we’d like to do.

However, once we decide where God wants us and learn where we “belong”, that doesn’t insure we’ll completely “fit in”. We might have different concepts of what it takes to do what we were called to do.

Before you apply this to your present job, please understand I’m not discussing employment in various occupations which can only be done in certain ways. Let’s face it: there are always rules for conduct, sometimes dress codes, and general ways to do business. Innovation is fine in its place, and a wise individual will know when and if the Lord is behind it and therefore when to suggest or introduce a “new thing”.

In the “business” of writing what is labeled (to the dismay of many) Christian fiction, there are also rules. They bend a bit depending on an author’s success, but they seldom break. There are always those who are on the lookout for what they describe as “fresh voices”, but they want those voices speaking from within a fairly dogmatic format. As I’ve written before, this is not wrong. It’s a risk to do something really different, and it’s a risk that involves a lot of money. It can’t be taken lightly—it must be calculated.

Those who don’t play by the rules do have other options in the self-publishing arena.

The stark realizations come not from the facts previously mentioned but by the conclusion that because someone prefers to venture away from the acceptable format, or the norm, or prefers to “break the rules” without malice, that they are somehow inferior in the craft of writing, possibly un-teachable, and/or that their work is truly inferior because it is not in the same form as the current trend dictates it must be.

Once again you get the feeling you just don’t “fit in”.

Father, anyone can fit into your family. They just have to come through your Son Jesus Christ. To be a part of your family breaks down all the barriers, and it will be such a welcome change in heaven. A willing heart submitted completely to you . . . that’s all I want, Lord. As I always request: help me, Lord. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

Sunday's Offerings

Since then no prophet has risen in Israel like Moses, whom the Lord knew face to face, who did all those miraculous signs and wonders the Lord sent him to do in Egypt--to Pharoah and to all his officials and to his whole land. For no one has ever shown the mighty power or performed the awesome deeds that Moses did in the sight of all Israel.

Deurteronomy 34:10-12 (NIV)

Robert Liparulo Interview

Author Robert Liparulo is one of the most generous and encouraging men I "know" via the internet. He has no time to give extra of himself, yet he somehow manages to do so. A husband and father of four, making trips to Hollywood at regular intervals, writing novels, and trying to squeeze in other essentials does not afford a man much "free" time, so I am very appreciative of his efforts to complete this interview.

The master of pace, suspense, and excitement, Robert Liparulo is one of the best thrill-ride authors of today. My favorite in this genre for sure.

1. Robert, you have said that you think getting published is sometimes more a case of perseverance than it is a measure of good writing. Would you like to explain that?

Getting published is not always about how well you write. Your story may not be what publishers are looking for at the time (market factors); the editor appraising your manuscript or proposal may have had a bad day and isn’t really reading it, or he/she doesn’t get the genre (not connecting with the right person); or maybe you simply can’t find the time to write (personal issues). You have to keep pushing, to finish something you can shop around, to get your work to the right person at the right time, until finally someone says yes. It can take years.

2. How did you get the idea for Comes A Horseman?

I read an article in "Psychology Today" about people who suffered from delusions of grandeur. Certain extreme personalities sometimes believe they are other people: Napoleon, Jesus Christ--those are the classic examples. It's about wanting to be powerful, bigger than life. I thought, “Well, why not Antichrist?” Then the story snowballed: What if that person convinced others that he actually was Antichrist, and what if he set out to fulfill prophecy associated with Antichrist to prove who he is? You could really wreak a lot of havoc pretending to be Antichrist, regardless of whether it was true.

3. You referred to Germ as a “commercial” novel. Why?

It has an easily grasped idea: a virus that finds specific people, and lots of visual “special effects” — shoot-outs, car chases, super villains. These things appeal to a broad readership, people who read simply to have fun with a story. I didn’t write it specifically to have a broad readership. It’s just the sort of story I tend to like as well.

4. You’ve written and had published countless articles. When did you decide to write a novel?

I’ve tinkered with the idea since I was a teenager. Started a few times and got sidetracked by having to make a living. My friends have always been writers. After talking to James Byron Huggins and David Morrell about five years ago, I got the bug again and figured it was now or never. I wasn’t getting younger. So I kicked into gear, wrote of several novels to show editors, and got the job done.

5. Are you going to be directly involved in the writing/production of either or both Comes A Horseman and Germ when they become films?

I was going to write the screenplay to Germ, but I may not now. A popular director became interested in it and wanted to work with his usual writers, so I agreed to bow out if he got involved. For Horseman, I’m just a spectator. I have a few other Hollywood projects in the works, ones that will allow me to write for the screen.

6. You’ve either just finished or are about to finish a third novel. Is there anything you can tell us about that one?

It’s called Deadfall. It’s finished and heading for a November 6 release date. With it, I intentionally veered away from the conspiratorial globetrotting chases that made up so much of Germ and Comes a Horseman. It’s more of an action/adventure/survival story—but still a suspenseful thriller like the first two. That was the plan, anyway.

7. What is your favorite aspect of writing?

Meeting the characters and going on grand adventures with them.

8. If you could determine what your work could accomplish, what would it be?

I strive to entertain people without offending either them or God. I hope readers have a great, fun time with my stories. I think they’ll learn something about the world and what it means to embrace noble attributes when it counts, when others are depending on you. I think these are lessons that come out of my characters—flawed as they are—without sounding like I have an agenda... which I don’t really—only to entertain.

9. As I’ve previously asked Jim (James Scott Bell) and John (John L. Robinson), so I will give you the opportunity. What do you think of the current status of fiction in the CBA, especially in light of your recent interview with Paul Asay printed in the “Colorado Springs Gazette” and other newspapers where he wrote that your books are “secular”, and that you don’t consider yourself a Christian writer?

Well, I am a Christian writer, but I don’t consider myself a writer of Christian fiction. I write suspense/thriller stories and I happen to be a Christian, which obviously influences the way I write and what I will and won’t advocate through my writing. I wonder whether there needs to be the label “Christian fiction.” Why not disregard that label and simply know through word-of-mouth or reviews or your own experience which authors you can trust to not offend your Christian sensibilities? Christians want to box everything up, but I think God is bigger than that.

10. As a writer who is already scheduled to have books made into films, what are your long term goals?

More novels, a screenplay or two. I’d like to see one of my books make it to the big screen, but that’s pretty much out of my hands; there are just too many people who get involved when Hollywood turns your way. Any one of them could veto the project.

11. Did you start to write your novels with a particular focus group in mind? If so, has that changed?

I wanted my stories to appeal to the readers—men and women—who wanted to read high-action/high-suspense stories, but didn’t want to trudge through all the sex and immoral behavior that so often fill that genre. I wanted to write stories that were sometimes edgy and dark and real, but not depraved. I wanted to write about heroes who exhibited heroic traits (even if only for a time), which seems harder to find these days. That’s still my goal.

12. From another fan and fellow writer, here are the two questions she posed. What is the most challenging part of your continuing writing career? And: What is the most effective way for you to keep your faith strong and centered in your career and while working?

Finding the time to write, when there are so many other demands for my time—new projects to discuss with various people, interviews, conferences...
I study the Bible daily and pray, of course. And I have a prayer team who prays for me when I’m writing or on a trip to Hollywood. I can bounce ideas off them and they respond from a perspective of people who care about my spirituality and that I honor God in all that I do.

13. You’re an avid reader. What do you like to read?

Thrillers—Lee Child, David Morrell, Peter Straub, Thomas Perry, Stephen King, Dean Koontz; classics—Moby Dick, House of the Seven Gables, Dickens; C.S. Lewis, Tolkien, Michael Horton, Orson Scott Card. I read a bit of every genre.

14. Is there anything you would like to say about yourself, your writing, or anything else?

Just... thanks for the great questions and for reading my stories. Stay in touch. My website is www.robertliparulo.com and you can email me through it. I love hearing from readers. Blessings!

Father, I ask that you continue to pour out your Spirit on Robert, give him your discernment, your encouragement, your continued protection and guidance. I also ask that you would continue to bless his life for his generosity to me and others. Help him to honor you in all he does and to hear your voice clearly in all of his endeavors. Thank you for his kindness and encouragment. Thank you for his talent, his work ethic, his heart for you. Be close to him. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

Open.

While some people blog for fun, others blog to keep their long-distance families informed, still others want an outlet to rant or rave, and some want to share their knowledge, instruct, guide, or offer their experience and/or expertise in different areas. There are probably as many reasons for blogging as there are blogs—well, maybe not THAT many.

Anyway, whatever your reason is for blogging—and whether or not you do it under a clandestine pseudonym—in one way or another you have to be open. Because sooner or later you have to address something that is of importance or at least of interest to you, and when you do, you’re going to reveal something about yourself.

We all know the dangers of operating on the web. Identity theft, cyber stalkers, all real and possible dangers. Nevertheless, if you enter into blogging, you take a risk. And what you’re ultimately saying by doing so is that what you want to express is worth the risk of some exposure. And whether it is or isn’t is up to you.

I have said here and other places that for me this blog is therapeutic. It has given me the opportunity to think through my thoughts in written form, to address them in a rant or even in a whine and hopefully come out of it all hopeful. Writing through them much like praying through problems has led me to some amazing (to me) conclusions at times and has helped me understand some things about myself and about the business of writing.

I’ve been wonderfully blessed by those who’ve been extremely generous with time they really didn’t have to spare but chose to provide excellent and honest answers to my interview questions both for me and for whoever might stop by to share in their expertise as well as their personal opinions. Without this blog they really wouldn’t have had a reason to take the necessary time to provide the information we all like to know.

Some of you visit regularly, and I can’t tell you how affirming that is. My thoughts and opinions are generally strong, passionate, and probably have alienated some visitors. Although I regret that, I can’t apologize for feeling deeply and being open about how I feel or think or believe or know. I would not purposely offend someone—confrontational is not by best style. I’ve had to “stand down” a few times in my comments and offer apologies for incorrect assumptions or statements I’ve made on the blogs of others. It’s kind of nice to have my own “domain” here—and that’s not to say I want to make errors or wrong assumptions here. It’s just to say this is where I get to be me, such as I am.

Those of you who’ve become friends to me because of this blog, I want you to know how valuable you are to me. I’ve posted on being a friend, on being hurt by those I thought were friends, so you regulars know how serious I take friendship, be it with my known friends or my “unknown” friends. I want to be open and transparent, while keeping some things private as we all must. I want you to have a sense of trust when you comment or e-mail me—that you can count on me to care about you, to keep our communications between us unless permission is granted to share them. Just so you know . . .

Father, thank you for each and every one who visits this blog. I believe you can minister through some of it because I know some of the posts have been of your design, and I thank you for those especially. Please use it for your glory somehow, some way. And continue to bring new friends to this place. Help them to be open. Help me to continue to be open. Help me to continue to hear from you, to write what you instruct me to write, and to do my very best to honor you in the process. May I put obedience to you above all things. May I hear your voice above all others. Please, Jesus. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

Reminder! Tomorrow (Friday, June 15th) my “friend” Robert Liparulo will be up in an interview. Please join us.

Announcing Friday's Interview with Robert Liparulo!

If you love suspense and high action—and you’re not ultra squeamish—Robert Liparulo’s novels are a must read for you. Start with Comes A Horseman and join two FBI agents in an imaginative roller coaster search across multiple countries to catch a killer they can’t identify and don’t anticipate. Then read Germ and follow another agent who, after losing her partner, must somehow pursue and stop a diabolical killer with only the aid of a doctor and his estranged brother, the pastor of a tiny church, after discovering they are totally on their own without the needed aid of the Agency.

Robert is the master of breakneck pacing, plot twists and turns, and breath-holding anxiety as he surges into immediate action, thrilling and often disturbing suspenseful encounters—all of it accompanied by a thoroughly engaging writing style and snappy dialogue.

He gives candid answers to the questions I sent to him, and you will appreciate his honesty.

Join us for Friday’s interview with Robert Liparulo.

The way things come about . . .

There are multiple ways for things to happen in our lives—and by that I mean changes, directions we take, detours we never see coming, and even complete turnarounds.

Christians strain—at times—to see the big picture. And sometimes the big picture isn’t even remotely visible. So we have to assume our Father in heaven has a clear view since He’s sovereign over all creation and all that good stuff. Only sometimes the “stuff” ain’t so good, folks, and even the strongest in our faith struggle with what the heck’s goin’ on. Right? I assume it’s not just me.

Several years ago I wrote a poem titled “Implosion”. It captured the utter desolation I was feeling at the time. There were a lot of major difficulties going on in our lives then, and I remember telling the Lord, “I don’t even know what to pray.” Gradually, things improved, and we made it through the crises of those days which at the time seemed about as close to hopelessness as we could get. God wouldn’t have any of that, but He let us get right to the brink of what felt like destruction before inching us away from that freefall into despair.

Of course, some of those difficulties were our own doing—past mistakes, bad decisions, things of that nature catching up to us and threatening our survival. We kept our faith because we’d already experienced all the world had to offer before finding Jesus, so we knew there were no answers outside of God for sure.

To bring this around to writing . . . recently on different sites and blogs (including this one), there have been some posts and/or discussions about writing, art, visions, calls, and the like. Along with the opinions given by a lot of us, there was concern registered about what it means to be given the specific direction to write.

In the world, secular authors might call it the “muse” or attribute their leanings, inspirations, and talent to write as coming from any number of possibilities, usually not having anything to do with the one true God.

Each of us who walks with Jesus knows that sometimes we walk through the valley of suffering, whether it be sickness, financial, relationship, trauma, or tragedy of various kinds, life on planet earth is not, nor will it ever be, perfect. As a writer, our experiences in these valleys can contribute to the depth, feeling, and meaning of our work. We can use them to illustrate both sides of tragedy if we can get to the place where hope is.

It is equally valuable to communicate the joy found in living for and serving Christ. By portraying life without cliché, one can also demonstrate the depth of contentment experienced in knowing the Savior of the world.

Regardless of the style of stories you are given, inspired, or called to write, as a Christian it once again comes back to pleasing God. Oftentimes we make assumptions about what that will include without seeking the Lord’s direction for the path after the writing is finished. Those assumptions can lead us down the wrong roads and cause us possible heartache. Not all of us will be conventionally published. Some will write with the distribution of our manuscripts going to a small of number of family, friends, and a few strangers. Some will self-publish. Some will use the writing to express those things that can’t be told any other way, and then that writing will be tucked away in a secret place only to be taken out when a reminder of that time or place is necessary.

You can’t know what God has for you until you ask Him. Until you do. Until you follow. Until you make the effort to understand and accept whatever it is He asks of you. In the end it’ll be the best. Not necessarily the easiest, or your first choice, or even what you can fully understand, but if it’s what He wants for you, the sooner you want it too, the happier and most content you will be.

God, help us. Daily we fight with our flesh’s demands to be first. Spirit of God, lead us in the way everlasting. Help us to be pleasing to you in all we do. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

Quite A Feat

Probably the majority of you who visit this blog once in awhile know nothing about horse racing and maybe could care less about the sport, but I spent over 30 years in the industry, and the Triple Crown races will always represent the pinnacle of championship horse racing. The elite group of young Thoroughbreds who are mostly royally bred to achieve this kind of status competes at a level those of us who’ve participated in the sport can only dream about. It’s like the Pro Bowl in football except nobody elects these horses—they race for the privilege of competing in this grueling trio of route races at distances they’ve never before run.

Racing has been called “The Sport of Kings” for many reasons, but initially it was because kings, lords, and aristocrats were the only ones who owned, bred, and contested these magnificent animals. We used to joke about it being the sport of kings because they were the only ones who could afford to do it, and at the upper echelon of horse racing, it’s a very expensive game. Yearlings can sell for upwards of several million dollars.

Yesterday, in spite of the same situation of there being no Triple Crown winner for yet another year, six colts and one filly made it a very interesting and competitive field for this longest and toughest jewel of the Triple Crown, the Belmont Stakes. The race is run at Belmont Park in New York, the biggest racetrack in North America. The distance is a mile and a half, a distance many of these horses will never run again.

What made the race especially interesting is that a filly was set to run against the boys, and while this isn’t unheard of, it’s almost non-existent in the history of the Triple Crown races. Those of us in the sport remember Genuine Risk’s courageous attempt and the toughness of Winning Colors, and there were a few more. The only filly to ever win this race (since it’s been part of the Triple Crown races) won it back in 1905 when the race was a mile and a quarter. And as one might expect, this year’s entry was no ordinary 3 year old filly. She was undefeated against her gender, and her pedigree had two Triple Crown winners on both her mother’s and father’s sides (Secretariat on Mom’s side and Seattle Slew on Dad’s). What this means is that she had the credentials to “get”, or be able to run, the difficult mile and a half distance. Anymore in the USA, Thoroughbreds are being bred to have more speed than endurance, so to have both—and particularly for this distance—is truly exceptional.

The other factor about having a filly in the race against her male counterparts is the fact—and generally it’s just not negotiable with very few exceptions—the colts are stronger than the fillies. No one argues women’s lib issues in horse racing. The facts speak for themselves. However, now and then God creates an exceptional filly who can demonstrate the kind of toughness and extraordinary ability to step up and defeat the boys. It is a rare occurrence at this level of competition.

So, to watch the stretch drive of this year’s Belmont Stakes as the Preakness winner Curlin and the Oaks’ winner Rags To Riches drove in unison to the impending wire, it was truly exciting to see the filly edge past this colt, watch the colt come back on to draw level with the filly, and see the filly furiously pass him once again and secure the lead at the finish line. It was indeed a classic race! The filly had matched a talented and courageous colt stride for stride, looked him in the eye and said, “Huh-uh, Big Boy”, and then demonstrated her prowess at being a champion on this day. And it was one for the record books--a race which very possibly will not be equaled anytime soon in the annals of this sport. It requires too much.

It’s incredibly difficult to stay whole to get to this level of competition. These horses are very young and are asked to run distances at which they’ve never before competed. Hard, tough distances at three different racetracks with three different surfaces to run over, three different barn areas and racetrack structures with limited time to recuperate from each effort. I know this means little to most of you, but to those of us who’ve put our hearts and souls into this business of racing Thoroughbreds, we have to hold back the tears at such an incredible feat of what took place Saturday at Belmont Park.

But then, if you’re like me, you let the tears drip from your eyes in silent admiration.

Father, what a noble creature you created in the horse. Thank you for my love for them. They’ve brought so much joy—and pain—to my life, but I’m richer for it. Thank you for your love for your creation, that you made it all perfect in the beginning. Please help those who work with these courageous champions to take care of them and to realize that you’ve given them incredible gifts, Lord. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

(I will send a copy of my first novel Hope Of Glory [744 pages] to 5 fans of horse racing who stop by and leave a comment. It’s a comprehensive novel about the middle echelon of horse racing written in the language, lifestyle, and culture of the sport.)