See John write

Here is the moment I received the gift of blog. Have a happy new year!

I’ve been thinking about the coming year. I’m not great about resolutions. I try. I really do. And I think there is great value in the exercise. But my experience has been that the real key to making positive changes is in the structure of our days and weeks. If I want to change something, then I have to change the structure. I need to create a time or a place or an obligation. Then the change will follow.

So in 2007, I’m hoping to create a structure to my weeks that will help me to learn more words and write more words.

The learning part is actually an old goal—a very old goal. I want to learn Portuguese. I’ve been dabbling with this goal for years. I have some software that is great—I just need to use it. And I live with someone who speaks fluent Portuguese. So over the next couple of days I will try to establish a set time and place to focus on really learning this beautiful language.

The writing part is also an old goal. I have been writing a novel. I wrote the first words in October of 2004. I have more than a start. I like the story. Those I’ve shared it with seem to like it too. I think it could be a good book. But recently, the progress has been “slow going.” So in 2007, I need to block out time for getting this thing moving again.

Here’s a little excerpt of my story for your enjoyment:

In a swirl of emotions, Stephen was relieved, angry, anxious, and exhausted all at once. As he stepped off the boardwalk onto the trail leading into the campground, the rain began to fall.

He hurried up the little slope and past the other campers who were quickly securing gear and getting into their tents. He looked up ahead and saw Samantha hurrying Sarah into the tent. Brandon was trying his best to heft the cooking gear into the back of the truck.

“Brandon, let me give you a hand with that,” Stephen called out as Brandon was about to drop an armful of cooking utensils into the mud.

As soon as Samantha heard his voice, she spun around. Her eyes quickly glanced around and then locked onto Stephen’s eyes. “Where is Ethan?” she demanded.

“I checked everywhere,” Stephen said trying to sound somewhat calm as he took the utensils from Brandon. Samantha’s face went pale.

“Stephen!” Her hands covered her mouth.

“Sam, we need to stay calm. I think I know where he is.”

Stephen loaded the utensils in the back of the truck. In an instant, Samantha had a hold of his arm. “Where could he be?”

A clap of thunder accompanied a strong gust of wind. The rain came heavier. Stephen caught Brandon by the shoulder. “Go get in the tent and get out of the rain.” Brandon nodded and headed to the tent. “Take off your boots before you get in the tent.” Brandon nodded again and kept walking.

Stephen straightened up and looked Samantha in the eye. “I think he’s hiked up to Peterson Lake on his own.”

Are you intrigued? As I make progress on the story, I’ll try to post nuggets here and there.

So what are your resolutions for 2007? What will you try to make more time for this year?

Gerald Ford and James Brown.

Do you ever wonder if those who have been celebrities or have held powerful worldly positions are surprised when they enter the next life?

“Hello, doesn’t anybody know I’m here?”

It certainly can’t be healthy for anyone’s mental or spiritual health to have “an entourage” accompanying every move they make in this life. The paparazzi—as irritating as they must be—must create a false sense of absolute importance.

Can you imagine former worldly celebrities alone, wandering aimlessly around heaven, waiting for anyone to come up and say, “Hey, aren’t you …?”

Just something to think about on a Wednesday morning.

Several weeks ago, I sat down and watched A Christmas Carol, starring George C. Scott. I found myself feeling profoundly grateful to Charles Dickens.

The story goes that Dickens wrote the story as a “potboiler,” which is to say it wasn’t considered a great artistic work, but rather something that was created just to pay the bills. I have no idea what his motivation truly was. But as I watched, I thought of the millions of lives, the millions of Christmases, that have been better because he invented Ebeneezer Scrooge.

The story is so universal. We all have a bit of Scrooge in us at times. A part of us that has forgotten our roots and better times. A part of us that has been distracted from what truly matters most. A part of us that needs help seeing the opportunities for good right in front of our noses.

So, thank you, Charles Dickens. Thank you for reminding us that the shadows before us are “shadows that may be only.” We can change for the better. Because of Christmas, we can each declare, “Spirit, . . . I am not the man [or woman] I was.” We can change this very night.

God bless us, everyone.

As I was drifting off to sleep last night, my mind was flooded with memories. My wife and I had just finalized plans for the last two Christmas gifts we need to buy for the kids. I was thinking about how excited I was for the kids’ gifts.

That lead me to memories of my childhood and Christmas. We didn’t have a lot of material things growing up. And I have to admit that Christmas always brought a dose of anxiousness–knowing that the things my child-like heart really wanted were probably not in the budget. In fact, I don’t remember ever making a “request” or a Christmas list. I simply left the gift ideas up to the benevolence of “Santa.”

This game of hidden desires and I’m sure some head-scratching guesses on the part of “Santa,” lead to some interesting Christmas mornings in my home. I’ll highlight two of the most memorable.

I can’t recall precisely how old I was, let’s just say I was in my teens. I was handed a box one Christmas morning. It was the size of a clothing gift box, you know for a shirt or pair of pants. But it was heavier than clothes. Intrigued, I quickly disposed of the wrapping paper and snapped the scotch tape from the lid of the box. Then, I opened the box to behold a top-quality, leather . . . bullwhip. That’s right, straight out of Indiana Jones. An 8-foot bullwhip.

I wish I could have been a fly on the wall for that discussion between Mr. and Mrs. Claus. “What do you think we should get Johnny?” and the answer with a twinkle in his eye, “I’ve got the perfect idea, an 8-foot bullwhip.”

I was completely shocked. But excited too. My dad had had a bullwhip as a boy and so I asked him to teach me how to use it. I stood out in the snow in front of my house for hours, learning how to get it to snap and pop just right. Then I started flicking icicles off the roof. Snap! Snap! Snap!

Spring came and with it more hours of fun with the bullwhip. By the time the next Christmas rolled around, I could flick the wings off a fly in mid-air.

But little did I know the surprise Santa had in store for me next.

In my family, EVERYTHING was wrapped for Christmas morning. I believe it was a way to prolong the melee. But another Christmas in my teenage years, brought a very unexpected surprise. I walked into the living room and there leaning against the wall was an unwrapped gift. It took a second to process precisely what I was looking at. It had a seat and pedals, but no handles. And it had one wheel. Indeed, leaning against the wall in the living room was a unicyle. And hanging from the seat a tag which read, “To: John, Love: Santa.”

Unlike the bullwhip experience, no one in the family had ever even attempted to ride a unicycle. So I was on my own. Furthermore, winter is not the ideal time to learn to ride a unicycle. But once the ice broke, I pulled the half-bicycle out from the garage and made my first attempts. I didn’t get far. Maybe six inches—literally.

But I kept at it. Soon it was a foot. Then three. Then across the driveway. And before you knew it, I was cruising around the block on a unicycle.

“Hey, where’s the other half of your bike?” George Duke called out. I smiled, waved, and kept on riding.

Thanks, Santa. Christmas was truly a wonder for me growing up. Sometime I’ll have to tell you about receiving a car for Christmas. But we’ll save that story for another day.

One of my favorite writing exercises is to take a well known story or event and look at it through a different person’s eyes. So, because it’s Christmastime, I wanted to share with you perhaps a unique perspective.

I glanced over my shoulder and I could see the pain had returned to her eyes.
“The pains have started again?”
She nodded ever so slightly.
“Stronger than before?”
In a half-grimace half-smile, she nodded again.

The dusty road that stretched ahead of us was nearly deserted. Not like early in the journey when it seemed all Israel had crowded along the same long walk toward Bethlehem.
I knew the donkey could travel much faster, but the precious load on his back was far too fragile to hurry now.

It will be dark soon, I thought. We must reach Bethlehem before we stop. Please, dear God, help us to reach shelter, a room where I can make Mary comfortable for this most important night.

We walked along in silence until a young man carrying a large bag on his back approached.
“Sir, can you tell me how much farther to Bethlehem?” I asked.
He smiled a friendly smile. “It is not far,” he replied. Then his eye caught the look on Mary’s face. “If you hurry, it is less than an hour’s journey.”
“Thank you. Shalom.”
“Shalom to you.”

If you hurry! I can do many things. But I cannot hurry, I thought.

The road reached a small wash that had been carved during a heavy rain. It wasn’t very deep, yet the donkey hesitated. I gave the slightest tug and he lurched across. Mary grabbed the donkey’s mane and a small whimper escaped her lips.

“Oh, Mary. I’m so sorry.” I stepped to her side and put an arm around her waist.
She placed a hand on my shoulder and squeezed.

“I’m alright,” she whispered.
“I don’t think we can stop. It cannot be God’s will that his son be born at the side of the road.”
“I’m alright,” Mary whispered again, but this time I understood. The calmness in her voice was clear. I drew in a deep breath and looked at her face. I didn’t know what I could say.
So we pressed forward. I walked at her side and she leaned on my shoulder. I thanked God for the small miracle of a donkey that would walk for a time without being lead.

With my arm around Mary, I could feel the tightness of her belly. I could feel the heat of her whole body as she labored. My own belly tightened and I prayed.

Dear God, why have you entrusted me with such a mighty task? I am a simple carpenter. And here we are, so far from our home. There is no one here to help Mary … except me. Help me, Lord.

The sky was almost completely dark when we finally crested the last hill and could see Bethlehem. I led the donkey into the crowded and noisy streets. Mary was breathing faster now and my heart was pounding.

A kind man showed us where to find the inn. I dared not leave Mary alone outside. So I stood at the door and asked for the innkeeper. The main room was filled with men and women. The odor of freshly cooked meat mingled with the smells of a long journey.

The innkeeper made his way across the crowded room, waving his hand in the air at me. “I am sorry, I am sorry,” he said. “We have no room.”

“You do not understand,” I pled. “My wife, she is heavy with child. Her time has—“

“I have nowhere!” he said firmly. “Have you no family in Bethlehem? You are of the house of David?”

“Indeed. But I have no relative in Bethlehem.”

“You must find somewhere else. I am sorry.” He pushed the door shut.

I looked at Mary. She clutched her round belly and blew out a long, unsteady breath.

In desperation, I glanced up and down the street. I stepped in front of a large woman walking past the inn. “Woman, I need your help. We have arrived too late to secure a room in the inn,” I explained. I pointed to Mary. “My wife is heavy with child.”

She pushed past me, and said, “My cousins from all about the region have come to stay in my home. I cannot help you.”

Again and again I pled. One after another, I was told the same thing. There was no room. No room. My only prayer for days. Please, please let us find shelter where Mary can be comfortable. And here was the night. The Son of God was to be born and there was no room.

I knelt down beside Mary. “I do not know what to do.”

“Joseph,” she said. For the first time, I could hear uncertainty in her voice. “Joseph, you must find us somewhere right now.” She gripped my arm and squeezed so hard it hurt. “We must get out of the street.”

“We will,” I promised, trying my best to sound certain. “I will return right away,” I said as I stood. I looked up and down the small street. I began to walk away, my heart pounded in my throat.

Dear God, Dear God, oh please hear my prayer. There must be somewhere to take shelter. Help me, God, help me get Mary off the street.

I pounded on the doors of several merchant shops that faced the street. No answer. The evening was getting cool, yet my brow was covered in sweat. I pounded on another door and glanced back toward Mary. Just then, I saw the innkeeper walk past Mary, carrying a fresh pail of milk into the inn.

I turned and almost ran toward the inn. I knew what to do. In a moment, I was back at Mary’s side.

“Can you stand?” I asked gently.
“I do not know,” she answered, her voice quivering.
I bent down and scooped her up in my arms. I made my way around behind the inn. I could hear the sounds of the cattle and sheep. The entrance to the stable was closed off by a wooden gate. Mary unlatched the gate and I pushed into the dark.

As gently as I could, I lowered Mary to the floor. “I will make room for us,” I whispered.

I’m so sorry, Lord. A stable! A cattle stall! How can we bring your son into the world here!

I led the large heifer out of her stall. Near the door, I found the keeper’s shovel and used it to quickly clean the stall. Using all the clean straw I could find, I covered the floor. Tears ran down my face as I surveyed my work.

How will I ever be able to care for your son, Father? I cannot even find a proper place for him to be born.

“Joseph?” Mary called out in the darkness.
“Yes, Mary.”
“I must lie down. Are you ready?” she asked.
“Yes. I … it has clean straw.”
“Help me over there.”

As I helped her lie down on the straw, the moon rose over the horizon. The pale light streamed into the small stable. Mary noticed the light, too. She looked up at me and smiled.

“We will need the satchel. It has the swaddling clothes. And we will need a clean knife.”

A twinge ran through my whole body. It was not customary for a man to assist in a birth. I wanted to be strong to help her, but fear stirred in my belly.

“I will bring the satchel,” I said and hurried out to where I had tied the donkey. As I walked back toward the stable, I could only think of the words, “blessed art thou among women.”

I don’t know Lord why you have chosen me, but it is clear why you have chosen her. Indeed she is precious among all the daughters of Israel. Please be with her as she enters the valley of the shadow of death.

Inside, I knelt beside Mary. I took out the swaddling clothes. I found the knife I had carefully cleaned and packed before we left Nazareth.

“We will need a place to lay the child after he is born,” she whispered.

I began to search through the stable. Three sheep were eating from a small manger full of hay. Carefully I nudged one sheep aside and lifted the hay out of the manger. The sheep continued to eat as I laid the pile on the floor. Then I carried the manger back to Mary’s side.

Her face was tight as I knelt beside her. She gripped my arm and squeezed. I placed my hand on top of hers, trying my best to be reassuring. In a moment, she began breathing again and laid her head back on the straw.

Hours passed. I stayed right by her side, feeling so helpless. Just when I thought the pain was about to overwhelm her, I watched a complete peace come over her. In between the waves of pain, she calmly directed me how to help her.

Then she delivered the most beautiful baby boy.

My heart burned within my chest and tears streamed down my face as I quickly wrapped him in the swaddling clothes to protect him from the cool of the evening.

I am so sorry, Holy Child. This was not the place I had planned to welcome you into the world. In Nazareth, there is a handsome cradle I carved with my own hands. That was supposed to be where you slept on your first night in this world.

“Can I hold him?” Mary asked.
“He’s so beautiful,” I whispered as I handed the warm bundle to her.

Soon, Mary and the boy child were sleeping peacefully. Carefully, I laid the babe in the manger.

Feeling very alone in the darkness, I thought of conversations Mary and I had had about the life that lay before this child. There would no doubt be difficulties and dangers. We knew he would be loved. But we also knew that he would be hated by some.

My dear Father in Heaven, I prayed, your son is so small, so vulnerable. I fear that I have failed you. Certainly it was not your will that the Savior of the world be born in a cattle stall! How will I ever be able to be a father to this child! Can you hear me, God? … Perhaps it is I that cannot hear you.

I do not know how long I sat there alone in the dark, but suddenly I was startled by the sound of footsteps and voices outside the stable. I leapt to my feet. Who could be about at this time of night?

At the gate I was met by four men, one of them carried a lamp.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded of them.
“We have come looking for a newborn babe lying in a manger.”
“What! Who are you?”
“We are shepherds.”
“How could you know about the baby?”
“It is true then? There is a baby here.”
“How did you know about the child!” I demanded.

One of them stepped forward and took me by both shoulders. “There was an angel. He told us that tonight was born a Savior which is Christ the Lord.”
I stepped back.
He continued. “The angel gave us a sign. He said we should find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger.”

My knees felt weak. I looked at the faces of these shepherds. I could not find the words to say. Finally, I whispered, “It is just as the angel told you.” And I pointed into the stable.

They stepped forward and threw their arms around me. “Blessed be the name of the God of Israel,” they whispered.

I lead them into the stable and they held the lamp next to the manger and looked upon the face of their Savior. They did not stay long. We stood for a moment again at the gate. There were no words that could be said. One by one they embraced me and made their way back into the deserted streets of Bethlehem.

When the shepherds were out of sight, I stood alone, in the dark, and I knew.

How long ago did the word “blog” even enter my vocabulary? I am not certain myself. But on Saturday, I was sitting at my family Christmas party, a Gap box sitting on my lap. Inside the box was a plain white piece of paper with “www.seeJohnwrite.com” in the middle. It was an amazingly thoughtful gift from my sister.

That’s how I got here today, my first day as a blogger.

And if anyone is here reading, I’m more amazed than I was on Saturday. But blogging is the craze, it is the place to be and the thing to be doing. As my sister-in-law said as I held up my gift to show everyone what I had been given, “That’s so 2006.”

So I’m jumping in. Who knows where this will go. I’m not even sure what I want this blog to be. But I love the wonder of the written word. It is both my profession and my hobby–how lucky am I?

I hope when you come here you find things that make you smile, make you think, and make your day a little better. Come back tomorrow and I’ll try to have something worth reading. And if you feel inclined to write something too, feel free.

John

This website belongs to my brother John, a gifted writer and a generous brother. It’s my gift to him, to be used as a toy during the quiet stolen moments at work or home, and a tool to keep his writing-mind fresh. May he enjoy writing it. May you enjoy reading it.

Merry Christmas, John!
Love,
Tiffany