You Couldn't Pay Me...

The past four years, June has meant one thing to me: VBS (Vacation Bible School). Fun and games and work. Lots of work in the months beforehand, lots of work during, and a final push at the following Sunday service.

In a Cowboy Church, we keep things—cowboy. But this year we broke the mold with Sonsurf Beach Bash, transforming the entire church into an Oceanside paradise.

My role during VBS, unchanged in five years (our church skipped one year), is the music leader/assemblies director. Each year, I’m never asked if I want to do it. It goes more like, “If Sarah’s not leading music, we’re not doing VBS.” Go figure.

I have to say last year, Saddle Ridge Ranch, was my absolute favorite. Though exhausting, the song lyrics, motions and the music itself were fantastic. I led the songs seven days out of nine—Saturday at the nursing home with the teens, Sunday service with the teens to promote VBS, three days of VBS, Saturday Family Night for the parents, and Sunday service with all the teens, adult leaders and kids. Just about did me in.

This was a good year, too. All the leaders were “Lifeguards” wearing red shirts that said: “LIFEGUARD. Mine Walks on Water.”

The director gave me a whistle. I felt like the lifeguards I see at the YMCA when I take my nieces swimming. They walk up and down the poolside, occasionally blowing their whistles and yelling, “Walk!” That’s fun to imitate when you have a herd of kids stampeding toward you on the stage.

As always, I started learning the songs and practicing the motions months before VBS. Weeks in advance, I went to church on Wednesday nights to practice with the teens.

Then it was time to rock the church with some non-cowboy music and giant beach balls.

Fun stuff, and I can’t get over those precious kids. I took the mic around (kids love talking into a mic) and asked them about their favorite part of VBS. At the end, I shared my own. My favorite part is the kids and their hugs.

Saturday Family Night came and I had to stop for gas on the way. At the pumps, an old motorcycle dude rolled over to my car and asked if I was a lifeguard. Where did he get that idea? Maybe it was the whistle hanging over my red shirt.

I laughed and said, “No, only at church.”

“I was just wondering, ‘cause I heard California lifeguards make a hundred thousand a year.”

He rolled off as my reply formulated. A hundred thousand a year, eh?

With the congregation Saturday night and on Sunday morning, I shared the story and my unspoken reply.

“You couldn’t pay me to do this!”

Besides, in my mind, I make WAY more than that. I see the influence I’m having on the kids and their futures, and I know I’m making more than money. I’m laying up treasures in Heaven, where moths or thieves or the government can’t break in and steal.

”But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys and where thieves do not break in and steal.” Mat. 6:20 NKJV

 And guess what? Our pastor’s grandson gave his heart to Jesus at Sonsurf Beach Bash.

“Let the little children come to Me, and do not forbid them; for of such is the kingdom of heaven.” Mat. 19:14

For Him,

Sarah Elisabeth

Traditional Pottery Class

 I originally posted this on my other blog, Choctaw Spirit, but it was too cool of an experience not to post here. For Him,

Sarah Elisabeth

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Antlers, Oklahoma

I sat at the tarp-covered table and Brian (instructor) emptied a small shovel full of mud in front of me. At least it looked like mud. In reality, this was called clay, direct from tribal lands in McCurtain County.

Ian Parker, Choctaw Tribal Archeologist, worked with his own clay while talking about the differences between mixing the clay with sand or shell. He also expounded on the material available to Choctaws on the Trail of Tears.

I did as instructed, crumbling the mud, uh, clay, into bitty pieces, extracting little stems and roots until it was “clean.”

Time to mix sand and ultra fine sand together before kneading it into the clay. I had to add water as it dried out. “A little water goes a long ways,” Brian reminded me.

As we worked, Brian talked about different techniques relating to this type of clay, and what was traditionally used by our ancestors.

In spite of the small amount I worked with, I felt intimidated by the clay. What did I know about shaping and molding it to perfection? The clay knew more about what it was supposed to do than I did.

When it really got out of my control, Brian handled it expertly. He flattened the bottom, straightened the sides, smoothed the interior. It began to look like the pencil cup I was going for—just bigger. Well, you’ll see what I mean.

I took it again, feeling bold. I was going to work the thing into submission. If there was to be any finger indentions on the finished product, they would be mine.

Most things I don’t pick up on the first several tries. But with my second ball of clay, I was ready to make something happen. Anything.

I started with the traditional bowl like shape:

 

It cracked. I tried to smooth it back together, but I had let the clay get too dry. This time, I knew what to do with its uncooperativeness. I smashed it back together, added water, and kneaded.

About that time I heard the comment of someone making a coffee mug. Me and Mama went with it.

Rolled into a ball once again, I started in the center. Again, lessons learned, I focused on keeping the opening small, going deep without allowing the clay to spread out. When my thumb would no longer reach, I changed to my fingers and stretched their limits. Then I dropped it on its bottom to flatten it. I knew the action would make the clay spread and widen, so I was grateful to have kept it so tight.

As I worked with the clay, I realized something. I began to relax. Weeks old tensions released into a sooth calmness. Using my hands to mold the clay made me smile. I really enjoyed it.

About that time, I found myself engaged in conversation with some of the other students around the table. We talked about other projects they had done and the next steps in the process, including the firing. According to the sweet lady next to me, they bring lawn chairs and food, prepared to hang out awhile and socialize while the fire burned before the clay creations are buried in the coals overnight. On average, the clay needs to dry a minimum of two weeks before firing.

Okay, God just keeps directing our paths. Last week, my mom and I talked about writing a novella length story (longer than a short story, shorter than a novel) about the Choctaw Code Talkers of World War I. The flash fiction story I’d written on it earned a Faithwriters.com Editor’s Choice and was well received by readers.

Near the end of the class, two sisters prepared to leave. One took a picture of the newbies (me and my mom). We all introduced ourselves and she announced, “My grandfather was a Choctaw Code Talker. His name was Ben Caterby.”

We talked, and I asked for their phone numbers. Too amazing to be a coincidence.

Before we left, Ian and Brian loaded two plastics bags with clay and sand for us to play with at home. Our four creations nestled in bags and cardboard box lids, we said our thanks and goodbyes.

After they are fired, I’ll post pics of the finished products. At least I still have the banner of “I’m just a beginner” to hide behind.

What an experience.

Burnout

  This spring, I finally planted a garden for the first time in years, pretending I had the time for another project. Into the soil went lettuce, varieties of squash, and tomatoes. A humble beginning, but it was the effort that counted.

Things started off decent. The green vines soon produced blooms with the promise of a good harvest. Then the wonderful Texas summer landed before the season officially began. I tried to keep up the watering, but to no avail. I dreaded looking out the back door as the leaves drooped and turned brown. Even I know when it’s time to call it quits, though I seldom do it. But there was no cost effective way to save the tiny garden spread. So I let it go. It was burned.

Sometimes I reach that point with projects. Recently, I had to let something go before it contributed to a mental burnout. I cut my monthly contribution to the Jewels of Encouragement blog. I loved the fellowship and fun, but I couldn’t hang on to everything or I’d face sinking to the bottom. I have to learn how to say “no” more often. Not an easy thing for me, since my brain tells me I can do anything, all at the same time. But it just doesn’t work out that way.

There are times when I can feel a burnout coming with a particular project. This blog, for instance. I had to let it alone for a while before the stress took me down.

Once it reaches the burnout point, there’s no saving a project until the next season rolls around. If it ever does.

I have to step back to fully comprehend what in the world I do with each of my days. Sometimes things aren’t nearly as overwhelming as I’d thought. More often though, they are even more so. But I just prioritize, pray and move forward.

And I’m already planning a fall garden. For some reason, I can’t let myself quit.

For Him,

Sarah Elisabeth

Looking Down on Fear

While on my journey to become a full-time writer, I work a monthly job at a trades day market. It provides the income we need to survive on beans and cornbread (and an assortment of chicken, fish and steak dishes. God is good).

This job is hard manual labor, but I love meeting people and getting out of the house five days a month.

These portable shops are set-up and torn-down each time, and I do some of that work in addition to my sales job. But one thing I always avoided was the ladder. *shiver* Anything over two rungs up and my knees Jell-O.

The day came and the last touch left required decorations on the top shelves running the length of the booth. With other workers occupied, I bravely grabbed the ladder and set to work.

I tried just the first two steps. Not high enough. I stepped to the third one and wanted to close my eyes. Instead, I glanced around. Wow. What a view. Familiar faces and corners took on a new depth, and I felt a rush of elation for no reason. I loved the new view. It was cool.

I remembered my fear of the third rung, but I didn’t tremble. I continued decorating the shelves, repositioning the ladder down the line as I worked. I paused at each spot to take in the view. I felt empowered. Not only was my fear conquered, I found that facing it brought a pleasant experience. I enjoyed it.

What else am I afraid of without cause? What’s keeping me from the wonderful things God has for me? How much have I missed in life because of fear?

Back to writing. I constantly force my characters to face their fears (sometimes I feel so mean). I strive to make the outcome realistic. If you can’t relate to my character, what good is the story? It’s not right when things turn out rosy for them and it could never happen that way in real life. But my characters do have the power to motivate you to face your own fear.

Whether it’s heights or sharing the gospel with someone or visiting a new church, I pray the real fears in life shine through my characters and into your heart; and hopefully give you a fresh perspective.

Rise above your fears–God has a new view for you.

For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind. 2 Timothy 1:7 NKJV

For Him, Sarah Elisabeth

Lessons from the Lawn

  With the luscious spring comes my least favorite task: mowing grass. I hate it. But when my attempt to use the lawn mower to scalp it to the roots fails, I resign myself to the fact that I’ll have to cut grass all through the hot Texas summer.

The trademark I leave behind is the wiggle rows of tire tracks. I can’t hold to a straight line. Not in cutting grass, not in drawing on paper. Not in life.

Before each week begins, I detail my schedule hour by hour. Regardless of the number of years I’ve done this, it turns out the same–only half the list gets marked off (maybe). Why do I keep up a practice that sets me up for failure? Simple. Half the list gets done. It keeps me on course for my annual goals.

My fictional characters’ lives are the same. They have things planned on how life should be, when poof! it’s gone before they can blink. Sometimes it’s gone before I can blink. A character will say or do something that disrupts what I had planned for them. At those times, I’m tempted to highlight and delete where things went wrong in the plot.

But not even God does that. I make a bad choice. He stays with me until I get my line straight. In the end, the destination is the same–not perfect, but still filled with hope.

And the whole yard gets mowed.

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For Him,

Sarah Elisabeth