by Roseanna White | Sep 18, 2014 | Remember When Wednesdays, Thoughtful Thursdays, Uncategorized
This past weekend, I was in Annapolis. Strolling old, familiar streets, laughing with old, familiar friends. Striding across rain-dampened grass that I’ve darted over many a time, struggling to keep a book-laden bag on my shoulder.
Now, homecoming is every year, but this is the first we’ve gone. Because it was our 10th. Ten years! Gracious, that makes me feel old, LOL. But as we sat on the Quad, browsed through the bookstore, and watched the truly spectacular Star-Spangled Fireworks light up the sky over back campus, I realized it didn’t matter how long we’d been gone–there’s something about St. John’s that never leaves you.
The event was over the 200th anniversary of the Battle of Ft. McHenry in Baltimore, the battle that “The Star-Spangled Banner” commemorates–because Francis Scott Key was an alumnus, thank you very much. =) One of our most famous, but…well, then again we can also claim the creator of MacGuyver. In fact, he received an award at the banquet this year. So yeah. FSK + MacGuyver. St. John’s obviously rocks. 😉
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| View of McDowell Hall from Back Campus |
I don’t often just talk about St. John’s on here because, well…so few people know what it’s all about, and I could ramble on forever on the subject, which no one wants, LOL. But today, I have to talk a bit about it. Because if anything struck me this weekend, it wasn’t the fireworks. It was the camaraderie. It was the sure knowledge that whatever stranger I spoke to on campus, we had common ground.
We are Johnnies. And that means something very special.
It means we can talk about Plato, Aristotle, and St. Aquinas. It means we debate Marx and Jefferson and Nietzsche. It means we have a working knowledge of physics and metaphysics and biology and chemistry…and that we might take a conversation on one of those into music theory at any moment. It means we know how to think, we’ve learned how to ask questions. It means we can carry on a conversation with absolutely anyone, on any topic…though fair warning, we might sneak Greek into the weirdest places.
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| This is from the SJC website…but it’s also pretty much one of my bookcases |
Being a Johnny means loving books. Loving literature. Loving philosophy. But more, it means loving learning. It means cherishing what has shaped us, not just the way we turn out. It means recognizing the value of the journey. It means recognizing that different opinions, different perspectives, different conclusions aren’t to be dismissed–they’re to be learned from. They don’t have to convince us…but you know, in examining what we don’t agree with, we often discover why.
Yes, we study Mr. God Is Dead right along with Augustine and Aquinas and the Bible itself. And you know what? Reading other people who question the very existence of God, the value of faith, made me value it all the more. Made me understand why I believe what I do…and made me able to talk about it to those who don’t.
St. John’s helped make me who I am. In every single book I’ve written, you’ll find reference to Program material–whether it be based on the work themselves (like
Jewel of Persia) or feature cameos of some of my favorite books (Brook, in my upcoming
The Lost Heiress, is wading through the German of Hegel, which is so difficult that German students often use the English translation!).
This weekend, I was reminded of all that. I got to hang out with my friends and talk about everything from dog breeding to Plato’s Symposium. Wine making to the publishing industry. I got to chat with current students and know that, though I’m a decade older, we all have that Johnny soul. I got to watch alumni from the ’40s come up to the podium and talk about how they fled Hitler’s Germany…and were blessed to find the opportunity in America to attend St. John’s.
I got to remember why I so love asking questions, exploring the what-ifs, thinking through a story…and teaching my kids Greek (everyone thought that was awesome, by the way). I got to be, not just a wife, not just a mommy, not just a teacher or a writer or an editor…I got to be a Johnny. I’d almost forgotten how cool a distinction that is.
by Roseanna White | Sep 11, 2014 | Thoughtful Thursdays, Uncategorized
Last week, my family had the joy of vacationing in Hatteras, on the southern tip of the Outer Banks of North Carolina, as far south as one can go before needing a ferry to continue. We basked in the sun. We played in the waves. We relaxed.
And we collected seashells.
The kids had been looking forward to that part for weeks. When family asked them what they wanted to do on vacation, their answers were: (1) play mini-golf, (2) get Sweet Frog frozen yogurt, and (3) collect seashells.
One small catch–the beach by our house had virtually no shells. For the first few days, they collected about 5. And at least two of those came from the strip of rocks and shells beside our condo rather than the beach, LOL. On Wednesday night, a few had washed to shore, and as we were out hunting ghost crabs, the kids grabbed up all the shells they could find. Very few were what I would deem keepable, but they were the only ones we’d seen, so…
Then on Thursday, we got an off-road driving permit and took the Jeep out onto Buxton point, behind the Hatteras lighthouse. This sandy peninsula was populated by other 4x4s, surrounded by blue-green water…and littered with big, beautiful shells. Eureka!
Now, I’ve been collecting shells for a lot of years…but always had limited space for bringing them home. So I had to come up with criteria for what I kept and what I left. For me it usually comes down to color and shape. I’m a sucker for pinks and purples. And for whole, unbroken shells. I like the kinds that have swirling patterns. And the ultimate find, of course, is a conch.
My kids though…they would pick up the ugliest, weirdest looking things! Ones I would have tossed back in a heartbeat they clung to with fierce determination.
The broken ones. (But Mommy, look at the cool pattern it makes along the break!)
The common ones. (I can use it as a shovel!)
The ugly ones. (But look, it has fossils in it!)
The ones just like the other twenty they already kept. (Oh cool, now it’s a collection!)
At first I tried to reason with them, to impose my logic. (Ha! LOL) And on some, we had no disagreement, like the perfect little conch we found on Friday, our second day at the point. Or the ones with holes that Xoe can turn into necklaces.
But those others…
As I walked the sand, as I kept my eye out for what I deemed the perfect shell, I stopped arguing with the kids. Let them pick whatever they wanted right then–but we’d have to sort through them before we left. No way could we take all those buckets- and bags-full home! There wasn’t room in our Jeep.
And yet, as I walked the sand, I knew I wouldn’t have the heart to take away the shells they loved, just because I didn’t see the beauty in them. In fact, the more I saw the mangled shells they chose, the more I loved those kids.
Because they see beauty where I saw scars.
They see purpose where I see brokenness.
They see what it looked like whole where I see the jagged edge left behind.
They see potential where I see hopelessness.
They marvel at the size where I screw up my nose at the color.
They are so, so much closer to looking at things through God’s eyes than I am.
Because let’s face it–we’re not the pretty, perfect seashells. We’re the broken ones. The scarred ones. The mangled ones. The shattered ones. The ugly ones. We’re the ones discerning eyes would pass over. We’re the ones perfection has long ago left behind.
And God loves us. Not despite our flaws, but because each crack, each track of worm-eating, each place where the sand has rubbed us raw…those are part of us. Part of what makes us who we are. Part of what God loves. He can see the whole, unbroken creation we are in potential…but he can also see the way he can use us in our brokenness. Because of our brokenness.
Yes, we came home with buckets and bags of seashells. And to be honest, I still shake my head at some of them.
But I’m glad. I’m so glad my kids picked up the ones I never would have. Because it proves that their eyes, their hearts, their imaginations go far beyond what I can see. And I thank the Lord that he’s given them a bit of his vision. Because if they can find the beauty in this…
…then I know they also see the beauty in us. Just like our Father.
by Roseanna White | Aug 28, 2014 | Thoughtful Thursdays, Uncategorized
I admit it–I don’t read for pleasure as much as I used to. Mostly because during the school year, I spend so many hours a day reading to my kids, writing, and editing that by the end of the day, my eyes and brain say, “Nope, we’re done. Stare at the television or go to sleep. Those are your choices.”
But there’s another reason. It’s because I’ve trained myself so much to be an editor that I can’t read a book without noting what I’d ask the author to change…and that get really, really annoying when I’m just reading for fun, LOL.
Now, the mark of a truly excellent book is when the editor switches off, or at least finds nothing to whine about. That happens, and I love it when it does. But other times…yeah. I recently read a dystopian where the character at one point mentions that in her town, there’s no music. She barely has a concept of what it is. Then a few scenes later, she likens someone’s breathing to a concertina. Um, no. If you don’t know what music is, you aren’t going to think in terms of instruments. Sorry. A first person book that suddenly goes out of POV and tells me what another character is thinking? Shudder. And that historical full of inaccuracies? Ouch.
I guess it’s kinda like a doctor watching a medical show. Or someone in law enforcement watching CSI. They’re going to notice the faults, the things the show gets wrong, and it’s going to ruin it for them. Sadly, that’s how some books are for me these days. It’s one thing to notice all the typos, which I’ve always done. But these days, it’s so much more than that.
But then it makes me wonder.
How can God stand to watch us?? LOL. I mean, He’s got it all right. He knows what He’s doing. He knows the right thing, the wrong thing, the so-so things we could do in each moment, and He sees how often we go the wrong way. How often we miss the mark.
And I can imagine Him in heaven, with his metaphorical red pen, saying, “You know, if you’d just let me give you some advice right here…”
But here’s another thing I’ve learned about editors–you have to let them give you advice. Freelancers you hire, and you can totally choose whether to take their advice or ignore them. When you’ve signed a contract with a publishing house, you kinda have to listen to what they say. Kinda. But you might be surprised at how many authors refuse, and take the cancellation of their contract over giving over control of their story.
What about in our lives? Do we give over control to Him? He, who is the ultimate author? The ultimate editor? Who understands far better than we do where the plots of our lives are going? Who knows what’s relevant and what isn’t? Where our focus should be?
Lord, be my editor. Catch all my errors and help me correct them. Cut out all that fluff I don’t need in my life. Keep my words tight and true to You. Lord, be my editor…and help me to take Your perfect advice.
by Roseanna White | Aug 21, 2014 | Thoughtful Thursdays, Uncategorized
This marked our first full week of homeschool. And I admit it–I haven’t adjusted yet. I’m still a wee bit frazzled by how much long it’s taking us this year (so far–hopefully it’ll streamline a bit), and what that means in terms of time to do other things. So I figured today, I’d just chat about some random things.
* That homeschool. Yeesh! I forgot how much longer 1st grade takes than Kindergarten. But adding in that extra amount of work for Rowyn…all of which must be hands-on for me at this point…puts another hour or so on my instructional day. I wasn’t prepared for that! But both kids are doing great with their respective work.
However, my brain is back is Edwardian Yorkshire. Because, you see…
* Last Thursday, on my birthday, I got to have an editorial call with my new editor, on The Lost Heiress. Maybe some people wouldn’t want to schedule such a thing for their birthday, but I knew well I’d have fun–and I did. I love talking story. I was emailed seven pages of notes, compiled from three different editors, and we went through them point by point. I had an hour before the call to review them and brainstorm, and oh my gracious. Such fun!
See, as a writer, I’m not a this-is-the-only-way-it-can-happen person. (Most of the time.) I’m constantly daydreaming about what ifs for my stories. Coming up with alternate ways the characters could reach the same places. So when an editor says, “This could be stronger,” I just have to tap on that door of imagination and let the ideas fly. It’s So. Much. Fun for me. =D
So in the week that’s followed, I’ve been spending all the time I can on those revisions. Of course, it being the first week of school, that’s not as much time as I would like…
And…
* I’m adding words! Yikes! LOL. I’m going to have to go back afterward and trim some other parts down, to get that word count back down on target. Not the fun part.
* I need a haircut. I have an appointment for next Thursday, but I have no idea what I want. Right now it’s about 3 inches below my shoulders. I like the length, but I want some life in it. Suggestions??
* My poor cat has had UTI for two months now. She’s been on antibiotics since mid-June. The oral ones made her puke, and the injections don’t seem to be helping. Which means she’s showing me her pain by making messes. I’m about at my wit’s end there…
* I’m making French onion soup tomorrow! Woot!
* And I should probably go take a shower before it’s time for school again. So until next time, there’s the randomness from the brain of Roseanna.
by Roseanna White | Aug 14, 2014 | Thoughtful Thursdays, Uncategorized
It’s my birthday! And yes, I claim my age. I’m 32. Not 29-for-the-4rd-time. Just plain ol’ 32.
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Okay, okay, so I was still 31 when this picture was taken…
but it’s recent. That’ll just have to do. |
The funny thing is, I still feel like one of the “super young” crowd…perhaps because I’m working in an industry where I belong to the new generation. Many of my writing friends are closer to my parents’ age than mine, and as an editor, I’ve yet to work with anyone younger than me, LOL. I occasionally wonder that these awesome people take me seriously, but they do, because they’re awesome. 😉
But as another year rolls by and I spend my days working on edits for my books and delving into a new one, I find myself thinking about my characters, and where they were/will be at the same age I’m now at.
My thoughts went first to Abigail, from A Stray Drop of Blood. At 32, she had given birth to six children. Had adopted one, had lost one. When Abigail was 32, her adopted son, Samuel, was already 23. Her firstborn, Benjamin, was 17.
My kids are 8 and 6. I can’t quite imagine, in my life, having kids that are already 23 and 17! Kids who are dealing with going out into the world and making their own life, rather than building things out of blocks and coloring pictures. Abigail, at my age, was ready to be a grandmother.
In some ways, I still feel more like those kids. 😉 A modern 32 is more like that 23 or 17, compared to the Biblical days. My family is still young, my life’s work still in its infancy. I’m more like Samuel, following his calling toward a life as a healer. Like Benjamin, still finding his footing in the world.
My heroine in A Soft Breath of Wind is only 18 through most of the book (and considered well past the age when a young woman should have been married). Brook, in The Lost Heiress, is 18-19 too. Solely because those are the ages they need to be for these stories, the ages when they come into their own. The heroine I’m working on now, Lady Augusta Kinnaird of the Highlands, is 20.
Maybe it’s spending my days in the heads of these young women that makes me still feel like a youngster, LOL. Who knows. But as I set out on another year full of stories and words and history, full of designs and marketing and homeschooling, I know I’m so blessed to be where I am. So blessed to get to do what I love. So blessed to be surrounded by family.
Yep, I’m still claiming my age–and claiming that 32 is going to better than any year that’s come before. And that requires some doing. 😉
by Roseanna White | Aug 7, 2014 | Thoughtful Thursdays, Uncategorized
I’ve come across it in several places lately. Usually from women. Women who are tired, stressed-out, spread thin, and either at or “recovered from” their breaking points. Women who give and give and give. And who have reached the point where they’re now saying, “Tend yourself first. Give yourself time. Then you’ll be happier and better able to deal with your family. Take time for you.”
Women who say their outlooks were ruined by that old
Joy teaching–Jesus, Others, You. That it messed them up. Made them miserable. That it’s too cliche, and that it instilled in them this thought that it’s wrong to take care of themselves.
I’ve seen retreats for women all about taking that time for yourself and then emerging better able to tend those around you.
And it all sounds awesome–because yeah, I need “me” time. I need refreshing. I need renewing. I need time now and then away from the constant harangue of “MOMMY!” to focus on the Lord. Still, something about all this bothered me, even as I recognized the value. And I wasn’t sure what it was. Then, as I edited WhiteFire’s next title to come out next week, No Plan B: Discovering God’s Blueprint for Your Life by Nelson Hannah, I started to put my finger on it. It combined in my mind with a sermon my dad recently preached at our church, and with the way my thoughts carried it out.
Everyone needs time of refreshing–I’m not taking issue with that, so please don’t think I am. What I’m taking issue with is the attitude that serving others first is self-destructive. That if we do it, we’ll be drained. We’ll need that time of refreshing, because it takes it out of us. Yes, it does…
…but it shouldn’t. Here’s why.
We are not our own. We are God’s. BUT–we’re not slaves. We’re not forced to do what he tells us. We’re not forced to serve others. And if we think we are…well, that’s a problem with our outlook, not with the practice.
In Biblical days, there were two kinds of “slaves.” (1) Slaves–captured or bought and not free to leave, ever. Their children are born slaves. Their children after them. Forever and ever amen. They must do what they’re told or else. (2) Bondservants–willingly indentured to someone as a means of paying a debt, but offered their freedom after seven years. Bondservants, when released, were given gifts to assure them the chance to thrive in the world. They took out all they brought in (wives, children). And if they chose to stay out of love for their master, then they were bound by their own will forever to their master’s house, giving up that will for their master’s.
We are not slaves to God. We are bondservants, through Christ. Do you see the difference in what that means? God doesn’t force us to come to him and do his will. But we, if we are Christians, choose it. We choose to forfeit–as in, give up, completely abandon, not just sign over for a certain day or decision–our will to his. We choose to give our whole lives to him. We choose his honor above our own.
We don’t do what he instructs us because he said so and that’s that–we do it because we love him. Not because we must, but because we desire to please him above all things. He is our Master…but because he loves us, he doesn’t keep us in that position of servitude forever. He names us heirs. We still serve, yes, just as the disciples did, as Jesus himself did–but we don’t serve as slaves. As bonservants, we have been given an inheritance (this happened frequently in Old Testament days especially–when no heir by blood was found, the most trusted servant would inherit).
We are not slaves. We are not slaves. We are not slaves. We do not have to serve others. But if we think we do…if we think it’s compulsory…if we think God’s standing there with a taskmaster’s whip pointed at us, saying, “Go feed the hungry–now. Go make dinner for your kids–now. Go serve on all those committees at church–now.” Well then, obviously we’re going to get worn down. Worn out. Frayed. More, we’re going to get resentful, because who likes to be treated like that? There’s a reason slaves have revolted throughout history.
And there’s a reason bondservants haven’t. Because they chose their path. And they kept to it out of love.
I love my Master, my Abba God. I want to please him. I want to listen to his voice above the whining of my own mind, above the limitations of my body. I want to put aside my fickle, foolish will and rely on his instead. I want to let go of the idea that I can do whatever I want and instead do what he tells me–he’s so much wiser than I am! And I want the assurance that it doesn’t matter if I’m weak…if I’m tired…if I’m burned out…if I don’t have enough time…if I just can’t.
I don’t have to. That’s the other brilliant epiphany of No Plan B. Even Jesus didn’t do what he did under his own power. Not his human power, and not his power as God. If he had, it would mean nothing to us. Because our human bodies are limited, and we can never be God. If Jesus had acted from that, we couldn’t be like him. But his every miracle was done through the Holy Spirit–whom he has imparted to us.
When I’m too tired to soothe one more tear, all I have to do is let the Spirit minister through me…and let me tell you from experience, when you do that, he ministers to you as well. When I’m at my wit’s end, I don’t need to rely anymore on my own mind–all I have to do is rely on his wisdom.
I chose to give my life, my heart, my will, my path, my every day, to the Lord. I chose to sign over my body, soul, and spirit to him. That means it’s not just me inside me anymore. It’s the Holy Spirit. He fills me. And if I just let him, he’ll act through me. Speak through me. Fill me.
Fill me.
How can I say I’m worn out, if I’m operating under his strength? How can I say I feel drained, if I have the Lord of Hosts inside me? How can I say I can’t, that I’m not, when I’m the daughter of I AM?
Yes, we need those times of renewal to focus on Him. He wants that for us, he gives that to us…as a gift. But no, we shouldn’t ever “put ourselves first.” Because we willingly gave that up when we accepted the Lord as our Lord. And frankly, it’s thinking we should or can that makes us so unhappy. So when I’m feeling tired, weak, worn out, and discouraged, I’m not going to think I need… Instead, I’m going to crawl up into the lap of my Abba and let him take care of it. I don’t need to go away. I don’t need to focus on me.
I need to focus on him.
Roseanna M. White is a bestselling, Christy Award winning author who has long claimed that words are the air she breathes. When not writing fiction, she’s homeschooling her two kids, editing, designing book covers, and pretending her house will clean itself. Roseanna is the author of a slew of historical novels that span several continents and thousands of years. Spies and war and mayhem always seem to find their way into her books…to offset her real life, which is blessedly ordinary.