Twenty-six Letters ~

In that twilight state of sleep, I had a dream that felt more like having a thought with imagery ~

You’ve had them. They usually take place as we're dozing off-- almost a perfect picture of things that are on our mind mixed with fantasy.

In this dream the capitalized alphabet slid across the dark screen of my closed eyes. The letters were all the same font size, but came in a variety of colors. They were in no particular order and even though the string of letters began forming line after line on the blank page, not one word was spelling out. As the dream continued, more and more letters joined the string across the dark screen, filling in each blank space.

ADGZQXPYLBRW . . .

Some of the letters began forming a spiral funnel, like a slow moving dust devil, but then they too took their place in line.

Finally a thought entered my dream:

Every piece of work you’ve ever read has been created using those same twenty-six letters.

In that instant I knew that regardless of what language the story may have originally been written in, when I read it, when I enjoyed and learned from a written work, it was written using the same twenty-six letters.

It suddenly became eerie that tens of thousands of stories have been and are being told using the same twenty-six letters. I had known that, and yet inside that dream the depth of it awed me.

The dream seemed to shift its point. Without seeing anything except letters I became aware of thousands and thousands of hurting people who didn’t believe in themselves or their ability to rise above what had been dished out to them during their journey on this planet.

But I realized the miracle of the power and flexibility and exponential potential of those twenty-six letters inside each person’s life. The most amazing part about the twenty-six letters was the understanding that we all have those twenty-six letters inside of us. Those letters are the building blocks that can form words and understanding that lead us to find healing, hope, and forgiveness.

Page Turners

A page turner is a great way to recharge our battery, be entertained, and broaden our minds. Books are amazing things—opening our hearts to new understandings and renewing our energy for life.

The other night I spent an evening with the Page Turners—a book club. A wonderful group of readers who chose to read my debut novel. Later they met at a local Borders to discuss the book and go over the Reader’s Guide. After that I joined them, gave a little talk, and answered questions.

We talked about the realities of Amish life compared to the book. I think the main question in everyone’s mind was how accurate was my depiction of the Amish community in relation to how Hannah’s father (Zeb) handled things when trauma entered their lives.

I don’t think the answer to that is found within the Amish community as much as it’s found within the human community.

Since the conception of the book, I’ve talked to a few Old Order Amish and Plain Mennonite women about this very subject and we came to the conclusion that we all either have or know fathers who would react as Zeb did.

A percentage of men, whether Amish, Mennonite, or Englischer, would handle a traumatic event by:

1. trying to do damage control (rather than meeting the inner needs of those who are traumatized)
2. trying to fix the problem by willing the person or people to be fine or downplaying the pain they are in (i.e. you’re tough enough to handle this, rather than what do we need to do for you to handle this)
3. closing themselves off emotionally and going on with their life as if nothing had happened
4. by blaming the person or people who was/were injured (if you hadn’t . . . then this wouldn’t have happened)

These are human reactions.

Trauma to a family unit can do horrible things to it and if a family has never seen such events happen, they aren’t likely to handle it well, not in the beginning.

The Page Turners shared a wonderful evening with me as we explored the Amish lifestyle and compared it to our own lives. Nora is the group’s leader. I had met Nora a few weeks prior to this & was immediately was drawn to her.

Marla, Ginger, Tricia, Ane, Kris, Shellie, and Cindy each shared the gift of a fresh perspective and I left wishing there was more time for me to connect with each one individually. The group was also blessed to have three wonderful young people: Scott 16, Hilary 15, and Morgan 13, whose very presence reminded me of all the wonderful books yet to be written by that generation.

And The Beat Goes On

Remember the song by Sonny & Cher ~ The Beat Goes On? I've always enjoyed that song—have often sung the chorus to children when stress tried to invade our lives and take on an ominous look. It seemed to help get the overload of homework, tests, sports, music practice, etc all into perspective. The Beat does go on and on and on—no matter what else is taking place in the world, even after the death of a loved.

Somehow I think that’s both comforting and disconcerting, but overall it’s more reassuring than anything else.

Last night our youngest son had his first band concert. He’s in sixth grade and the whole experience was cool in a thousand ways I can’t explain, but I can cover a few of the ways.

Our two older sons had both played in both marching and symphonic bands in high school. I remember going to the football games just to see and hear them play with the marching band—I never knew what took place on the field during the games, although I tried to at least be aware of the final score.

Each Friday night during football season the cool evening air carried the aroma of the season: first summer, then fall, and finally winter. I remember the laughter and sense of camaraderie among the band members, the National Anthem being played, the moment of silence that always caught in my throat. I remember pieces to a life I couldn’t slow down.

They graduated and went on to college— the oldest has graduated college, the younger wishes he were:-).

Last night I sat in the crowded cafeteria at our youngest child’s school, remembering when I took band in sixth grade. Band for us meant everyone played the same instrument—a recorder.

At the end of the school year, on the night of our performance, my Mennonite friend and I knew her parents’ tolerance for the public school education had ended. They’d set up their own school and she wouldn’t be going on with me into middle school that next year. But both her parents and mine had promised we could still see each other, still spend the night with each other.

But the reality of what was soon to take place didn’t dampen our fun that night. We’d agreed to meet at the school long before time for the performance to begin. When we did, we moved about the building unchecked by teachers, unhurried by classroom bells, and talking excitedly about our upcoming performance. The disappointment of our upcoming separation was dulled under the hope of promised spend the nights. And roaming the halls, chatting freely with my best friend was my first taste of grown-up freedom.

The band director last night had those kids performing so smoothly it was hard to believe that most of the students had never played an instrument before he began teaching them three months ago.

Today I’m reminded that I can’t slow life down, can’t control it, can’t predict it, but I can push aside any dread or fear of what will happen in life and enjoy the taste of what is.

Cindy Woodsmall Book Signing

I've had three book signings thus far. The first two were on the same day and my editor, Shannon Hill, flew in from Colorado and two AMAZING writers, Rene Gutteridge and Eric Wilson, were signing also. Between signings, Shannon bought our lunch and we all talked shop for over an hour. That had to be the most idyllic way possible to experience a first book signing.

Then, a month later, for my next book signing I was blessed to sign books next to Shannon and Greg Ethridge, non-fiction authors of Every Woman's Marriage. Before I met them I had a few questions to ask Shannon and the lulls in the signing line gave us time to chat. A person can't spend time with Shannon Ethridge without coming away with a new perspective on relationships.

For this next signing, I'll be by myself.

Okay, that's a bit daunting (a bit?).

I’m slated to do a reading.

A reading? Aloud?

Let’s visualize this: I’m inside Borders fifteen days before Christmas. Shoppers are dispersed throughout the isles and they are on a mission—to find a specific gift. They’re a bit stressed, confused, and tired. A voice will rattle through the intercom, announcing my name and the title of my debut novel. Customers will glance up from whatever books, CDs, or related items they’re looking at, catch the eye of the person nearest them. One will say, “who?” The other will shrug and both will continue their shopping. In the meantime I’ll begin reading . . . out loud . . . to myself . . . while a few shoppers peep around the endcap of their isle, thinking, “who?”

You know, the moment I heard that my first by-myself book signing included a “reading,” an image flashed before me of men and women at the publishing house sitting behind closed-door meetings, brainstorming on what can be done to torment newbie authors:-o)

Okay, that’s an unfair image, but it flashed before me anyway.

Truth is, my publishing house has been incredible. Every department labored really hard. And their generous effort has caused When the Heart Cries to be on December’s CBA Best-seller List for fiction. Wow. And thank you.


BOOK SIGNING:

WHERE: BORDERS
Mall of Georgia Crossing
678-482-0872

WHEN: SUNDAY, DECEMBER 10, 2006
2 to 4 P.M.

Why Show Up:

1. There’s an author-designed gift basket that you can sign up for. The price? Acting like you’re listening as I read aloud to YOU while everyone else wonders who I am, what I'm doing, and why you’re actually standing there, listening.

2. You feel sorry for said author

3. You don’t feel the least bit sorry for said author, but need a good laugh and this should be good for a laugh

4. You’re an aspiring author and need lessons in what tortures to prepare for

5. You need embarrassing-moments fodder for YOUR book

6. It’s the season when you need to do one good deed to get off that naughty list

7. It’s the season that no matter where you go, you need to buy something & check someone off your list —so why not?

8. You love chocolate and said author will have designer chocolates from Hansel & Gretel of Helen, GA

9. You know said author is the treasurer for local ACFW/WORD and you figure since your dues are probably helping to pay for said chocolates, you might as well show up and indulge

10. You know said author is the treasurer for local ACFW/WORD and you figure since your dues DON’T go to that local group, you should show up and indulge

Peace,

Cindy

Meeting LuAnne

I was in the fourth grade and it was my first day at this school.

So far I had silently taken a long ride on a bus full of strangers, navigated up stairwells and through unfamiliar hallways, and found my classroom in a building I’d never been in before.

I was barely inside the room when I heard someone say, “There she is.”

Before I took two more steps, I was surrounded.

“What’s your name?” A boy asked.

I told him.

“What kind of last name is that, anyway?” The boy wrinkled his nose, looking me dead in the eye.

“The only one I got.” An unfamiliar knot formed in my stomach. I’d been to new schools before, but this one seemed awfully unfriendly.

A girl with a kind face, braided pigtails, and some sort of small bonnet covering her head stood at the outer edge of the group of boys, watching.

A boy moved his head, blocking my view of the girl. “Frank said you ride on his bus.”

I wondered who Frank was.

“He said your dad ain’t a farmer. Everybody round here owns or works farms.”

I shrugged.

“Well?” Another boy asked.

“My dad works in D.C. and drives back and forth.”

“D.C?” The boy mocked.

The squeals of laughter made the teacher glance up from his desk. “Settle down. You have three minutes before you need to take your seats. Make sure you have pencil and paper ready.”

“So,” the boy lowered his voice and moved in even closer, “Why’d your dad buy all that land with barns and fences if he don’t intend to farm?”

“I think he said something about a hobby farm.”

The whispery scoffing spoke a lot louder than the boys’ dared to. “Every one of us has been up since four this morning doing chores. Farming ain’t no hobby.”

The girl with the bonnet pressed forward and the group parted, much like I’d imagined the Red Sea had all those years before. “I think you guys are coming on a bit strong, no?” The girl took me by the hand and led me to the back of the room where it was quiet. The boys kept a wary eye on us as they walked to their desks. She kept her blues eyes fastened on my lunch bag. “They don’t mean to sound so rude.” She slowly lifted her eyes to mine. “That’s what my Mom says anyway.”

I remember the kindness in her eyes, the oddity of her speech patterns, and how easily she brought peace to those around her. I met LuAnne that day, a blonde-haired, soft spoken girl, whose bonnet was a prayer kapp. She was a Plain Mennonite, who was comfortable with not fitting in with those around her.

Her father wasn’t a dairy farmer either ;-)