In The Spotlight

I love reading author interviews, hearing the story behind the story. And today I've had the privilege of being one of those authors. Hop over to the FaithWriters Blog for an inside look at my writing journey.

For Him,

Sarah Elisabeth

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

Unlocked

Book Review: Unlocked by Karen Kingsbury

 

Unlocked begins with the deep pains of a mother’s heart. Tracy has dealt with her son’s autism for fifteen years. Therapy, special needs education, exact afternoon routines—eighteen-year-old Holden is non communicative, living in his own private world.

Abandoned by her closest friends and with her husband gone from their lives, paying the bills with dangerous fishing jobs in Alaska, Tracy bears the weight and hurt through her faith. After years of little progress, prayer is often the only thing that gets Tracy through each day. Until Ella comes into Holden’s life—again.

Best friends at three years old, Holden still remembers his Ella. It’s not long, through old family photo albums, that Ella makes the connection. Because of her mother’s concern and discomfort with the vaguely understood condition of autism, Ella was separated from her friend. Life moved in a completely different direction for both families.

Sick of being part of the “in” crowd of jerks and bullies, Ella befriends Holden and becomes his advocate with the high school drama leader. Music seems to be the key to unlock Holden. Ella is determined to let him have the opportunity to at least listen to rehearsals of her starring role as Belle in the expected last performance for the Fulton High Drama program.

What happens in all the lives involved is nothing short of a miracle straight from God.

This first Karen Kingsbury book I’ve read, Unlocked exceeded my expectations. The pain and struggles felt by each character was so real and rich, I could hardly put the book down. The connections and relationships were complicated, yet realistic.

And Holden. Wow. To write from the viewpoint of an autistic teenager with a heart of gold. Amazing.

More than once this book had me near tears. I don’t cry over novels, but this had me setting it aside a few times just to catch my breath. Nothing overly dramatic or sensationalized, just the raw emotions of real life. And the real hope that in found in Christ Jesus.

Karen Kingsbury said in a recent interview that she doesn’t patch Jesus into her stories. She wants Him to always be an intricate part of every novel she writes. That holds true for Unlocked.

Do I recommend this book? Hey, I’m even getting my mom to read it, and she doesn’t read novels. Don’t miss this gem.

A great big thanks to Cindy at SurprisingTreasures.com! I won this copy of Unlocked on her blog. Her family has their own amazing story unfolding every day.

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.