Your memoir: full of grace and seasoned with salt

 

The Bible tells us to let our words be full of grace, seasoned with salt.

 

What does it mean for memoirists to use words that are seasoned with salt?

 

Salt purifies and preserves. In Bible times, because people didn’t have refrigerators, they used salt to keep their food from spoiling. Salt prevents rotting and waste.

 

Salt also heals. Have you ever had a mouth sore? Even a little tiny one can really hurt! If you sprinkle a few grains of salt on it for even a few seconds, you might be surprised at how quickly that sore will heal.

 

Salt also adds flavor and makes food tasty.

 

And it’s part of a healthy diet.  Salt “balances fluids in the blood and is vital for nerve and muscle function.” 

 

Think about writing your memoir while reading the following:

 

“Salt has little influence when sitting in a salt shaker.

 

“However, it is of great value once it is mixed, in the right proportions, in our food. When it is sprinkled on food—or, better yet, cooked into food—it transforms the food. . . .

 

“Salt then is a perfect metaphor for the people of God: We have the responsibility to transform the environment in which we find ourselves, just as salt transforms food.

 

“We are often few in number, but it is no matter. Just as a few grains of salt can make a big difference in food, so also a few faithful Christians can make a big difference in the world.” (from The Sermon Writer’s Biblical Commentary)

 

Jesus said believers are the salt of the earth (Matthew 5:13). That means you have a ministry to those around you.

 

We are called to speak the truth in love (Ephesians 4:15).

 

“Gracious words are a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bone” (Proverbs 16:24).

 

Writing your memoir is a ministry, not a hobby.

 

“You are a seasoning agent. . . .

You can bring the distinctive flavor of God’s values

to all of life.”

(Theology of Life Project)

 

 

God can use your memoir

to do for your readers what salt does:

Your memoir can purify, preserve,

prevent wasted lives, add welcome flavor to life,

and keep your readers well-nourished and healthy.

 

In what specific ways can you write a memoir

full of grace, seasoned with salt?

 

Hemingway’s encouragement for you

 

“Don’t be discouraged because there’s a lot of technical work to writing. There is, and you can’t get out of it,” said Ernest Hemingway, advising beginning writer Arnold Samuelson, age 19.

 

“It’s your object to convey everything to the reader so that he remembers it not as a story he had read but something that happened to himself.”

 

Read that last part again:

“. . . so that he remembers it not as a story he had read

but something that happened to himself.”

 

You want readers to experience your story alongside you. That’s how you can make a difference in their lives. That’s how God can use your story to inspire, heal, and mentor your readers.

 

Work hard to make write that kind of memoir.

 

Join (or form) a writing group—a good one. Critique each other’s manuscripts.

 

Attend writers’ conferences.

 

Study the best writing books available:

• On Writing Well by William Zinsser
• The Writer’s Portable Mentor by Priscilla Long
• Writing the Memoir by Judith Barrington
• The Memoir and the Memoirist by Thomas Larson
• Inventing the Truth: The Art and Craft of Memoir, edited by William Zinsser
• Writing for Story by Jon Franklin
• Handling the Truth by Beth Kephart
• Writing Tools by Roy Peter Clark

 

To make your memoir the very best it can be,

you’ll need to make revisions and edits,

but it will be worth it in the end.

 

Remember Jeff Goins’ words:

“Never, ever, ever underestimate the power your words can have.” 

 

Pray about your writing and rewriting.

Ask God to guide your work

and use your finished memoir to bless others.

 

A writer’s prayer for you

 

“Many beginning writers believe

the writing process requires great confidence

and unfaltering courage.

 

I’ve learned the writer’s journey requires

the ability to admit we’re not brave

or altogether perfect.

 

As Christian writers, we fare well

if we possess the wisdom to ask God

for the strength and discipline needed

to buckle down

and type the words He gives us.”

 

Xochitl Dixon

Lord, thanks for this new year and the fresh opportunities You offer us to write our memoirs.

 

Remind us that you’ve given each of us life and therefore you’ve given each of us a story to share with others.

 

Help us believe that writing our stories is not a hobby—it’s a ministry! You’ve told us to always remember what we’ve seen You do and to tell our children and grandchildren (Deuteronomy 4:9).

 

And Jesus said, “Go back to your family and tell them all that God has done for you” (Luke 8:39).

 

Your Word urges us to tell everyone about the amazing things You do, for You are great and most worthy of praise (1 Chronicles 16:24-25).

 

Convince us that we should not look down on small beginnings—and that You, O God, delight to see our work begin (Zechariah 4:10). Lord, give us the courage to begin.

 

Ignite a fire in our hearts to work as disciplined, intentional writers, committed to finishing our memoirs.

 

Take away our fears, Lord, and help us compose our stories with confidence, knowing You will use our efforts to point readers to You and Your love and Your goodness.

 

Motivate us to make time to reflect—to think back and ponder and examine—and to search for Your holy fingerprints, footprints, and heartprints. Enlighten us so we connect the dots and notice connections we overlooked in the past.

 

Enable us to see Your big picture, to recognize what You were doing to bring about Your best for us—often not the easiest, but the best.

 

You have entrusted our stories to us. You want us to tell others so they can see how You fought our battles alongside us, You brought healing and hope—not because of who we are, but because of who You are! Not because we are so great, but because You, God, are so great.

 

You have called us to a sacred task so inspire us, dear Lord. Help us find joy in the process of writing, of retelling our “God-and-Me” stories. Place in us a desire to learn to write well, with clarity and grace, and to persevere through rewriting and polishing and editing and publishing and marketing. Bring good people alongside us to accomplish all that.

 

Help us to embrace fulfillment and purpose and satisfaction in doing what You’ve called us to do.

 

Lord, You can do far more than anything we can request or imagine (Ephesians 3:20) so we humbly ask: Please equip us to write the stories You’ve given us. And once they’re in print, use them to accomplish Your good purposes.

 

Help us remember: All of this is not because we’re so great, but because God, You are so great!

 

Not because of who we are, but because of who You are!

 

May our memoirs and lives bring honor to You, 

our glorious God.

 

Taking a break from writing might be the best thing that could happen to your memoir

 

Did you work on your memoir over the holidays? If not, don’t be too hard on yourself because taking a break can help you make progress!

 

My friend Beth told me she took a two-year break from writing her memoir—but she also said she wanted to get back to writing it.

 

When I was writing my second memoir, Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go: A Foot-Dragger’s Memoir, two-thirds of the way through I took a break for about six weeks.

 

I didn’t even look at my rough draft, let alone work on it. And it felt good. It was a healthy break, a time for my thoughts to settle and gel. A time for me to catch my breath.

 

But like Beth, I eventually wanted to get back to work.

 

I suspect most of you can identify with Beth and me. How long has it been since you worked on your memoir?

 

It’s good to take a break, to stand back

and give yourself time for your thoughts to come together,

time to catch your breath.

 

But this is important:

Beware of getting stuck in a non-writing rut!

 

Here’s what works for me when trying to get out of that non-writing pothole and I suggest you give it a try:

 

Instead of nagging at yourself

 —or even bribing yourself—

 into sitting down to write,

 simply get out your manuscript.

 

Are you writing your memoir on your computer? If so, sit down, turn it on, and open that document.

 

If your manuscript is hand-written and stuffed in a filing cabinet, go get it.

 

Whatever format your memoir is in, get it out. Read it.

 

Take in what Zadie Smith says:

 

“. . . If money is not a desperate priority,

if you do not need to sell it at once

or be published that very second—

put it in a drawer.

For as long as you can manage.

A year or more is ideal—

but even three months will do.

Step away . . . .

The secret to editing your own work is simple:

you need to become its reader instead of its writer.”

 

That’s it!

(1) Look at your manuscript as if you were a reader

—reading it for the first time—

rather than as the writer.

 

And then, later,

(2) look at your manuscript through the eyes of an editor.

 

Think about it:

You know what you want to communicate

but if you’re too close to your story,

you don’t recognize the gaps

you’ve unintentionally left.

 

In your mind,

you know all the subtle things

and the back story

and where the story is going—

so, in your brain, all the info is there.

 

But the problem is this:

too many of those details are still only in your mind

and not on the paper or computer screen.

 

If you’re too close to your manuscript,

it’s easy to overlook holes and cracks—

those details that will trip up readers

and interrupt the story.

 

If you are too close to your manuscript, you can’t read it as if you’re reading it for the first time.

 

So, if you’ve set aside your writing for a while, take advantage of this opportunity—take a fresh look and fix details that need fixing.

 

Believe me when I say this:

 

Taking a break from writing

might be the best thing

that could happen to your memoir.

 

Hooray!

 

Dreaming of a black Christmas

Today I’ll share a December excerpt from my memoir, Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go: A Foot-Dragger’s Memoir. The scene takes place on a mission center, Lomalinda (pretty hill), in South America, during our family’s first December there. 

But first, review Your Christmas stories need sensory details, and then notice those that I included in my excerpts, below. (Sensory details: What do you see, hear, taste, smell, and feel?) 

Lomalinda was into the dry season with clean cerulean skies and hardly a wisp of a cloud. Daytime temperatures rose to over a hundred degrees in the shade—cruel, withering. The green scent of the rainy season had given way to the spicy fragrance of sun-dried grasses. Immense stretches of emerald disappeared, leaving grasslands stiff and simmering under unrelenting sun.

      Muddy paths and single-lane tracks turned rock-hard and, with use, changed to dust. Yards and airstrips and open fields turned to dust, too. 

      From sunrise to sundown, a strong wind blew across the llanos, a gift from God because it offered a little relief from the heat. On the other hand, we had to use rocks and paperweights and other heavy objects to keep papers from blowing away. Dust blew through slatted windows and into homes and offices and settled on our counters and furniture and in cracks and crannies and on our necks and in our armpits and up our noses. . . . 

      During rainy season, sometimes laundry took days to dry in our screened-in porch, but in dry season I hung laundry outside and, after pegging up the last garment in the laundry basket, I took down the first pieces I’d hung—the hot wind had already dried them.

      Dry season gave homes and furniture and clothing and shoes and photos and slides a chance to de-mildew. Roads were easier to navigate, no longer gooey with mud. The parched wind gave us a break from the profuse sweating we endured in the rainy season so, in that way, it was a friend.

      But dry season could also be a foe. One sizzling afternoon, Dr. Altig hollered at our door, “Call for help! We have a fire!” Across the road behind Ruth’s house, flames leaped and smoke billowed. . . .

That year, our family’s first there, we learned December traditionally was a time of wildfires in and around Lomalinda, leaving acres of black ashes. Shortly after that day’s fire, the following happened:

One December day I walked a sun-cracked track while that celestial fireball cooked my skin and the smell of charred grassland swirled in the breeze. The school principal puttered up to me on her red motorbike. “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas!”

      Pris watched me for a few seconds and then laughed—my face had betrayed my thoughts. I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying, “This looks like Christmas? You’ve got to be kidding!”

    To me, Christmas looks like frost-covered evergreens, and snowflakes, and frozen puddles. Heavy coats, scarves, mittens, boots. Runny noses. Sledding. Ice skating. Swags of cedar and pine and holly tied with red ribbons.

      I learned a lesson on that hot, dry December day. “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas” means different things to different people. To most Lomalindians, especially kids, Christmas looked like a bleached landscape, charred fields, hot wind, and a whiff of ashes in the air. Folks enjoyed saying, “I’m dreaming of a black Christmas.”

What are your memories of unique Christmases? 

• Did you spend one Christmas fighting a war overseas? 
• Or did you celebrate the holiday in Hawaii one year? 
• Or did you take a trip to the Holy Land?

What about traditions you enjoyed? 

• Playing fun games 
• Serving Christmas Eve dinner at a homeless shelter
• Going to the Nutcracker each year
• Watching It’s A Wonderful Life or Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer
• Christmas caroling in nursing homes

What memories of traditional Christmas food do you have?

If you have a Nordic background, you might have traditions around smörgåsbords with

• lutefisk, 
• pepparkakor, 
• gubbröra, 
• liver pâté,
• vörtbröd, 
• pickled herring, 
• pinnekjôtt,
• glögg, and
• julekaker.

If you have a Scottish background, you might have 

• haggis 
• tatties and neeps, 
• black pudding, 
• Cock-a-leekie soup,
• clootie dumpling, and 
• Yorkshire pudding. 

Have fun remembering Christmases past.

This is a super busy time of year, but if you keep a pencil and paper handy, simply jot down ideas for now. When things settle down after the holidays, you can spend more time on a rough draft.

And be sure to include sensory details.

Offer readers your all-important takeaways to help them move from mourning to thanksgiving

 

For the past couple of weeks, you’ve considered writing stories in your memoir that embrace both mourning and thanksgiving. (Click on What can you offer readers about mourning AND thanksgiving?)

 

You’ve experienced heartbreaks, setbacks,

and devastating losses.

 

But now, years later, you recognize

there’s more to your story.

Something to be thankful for.

 

Not only did you survive, but now

you acknowledge the silver lining of your heartache.

 

You came out on the other side of your sorrow

thanking God for the blessings wrapped up in the hurts.

 

He brought beauty from your ashes:

He gave you the oil of joy—a joyous blessing—

instead of mourning,

and a garment of praise

instead of heaviness and despair (Isaiah 61:3).

 

That’s what you want to put in writing

for your family and friends.

(See Part 2: What can you offer readers

about mourning AND thanksgiving?)

 

As beautiful as the story now is, it isn’t complete unless you include takeaways for readers.

 

Offering people a takeaway means you tell them the most important lesson you took away from a given experience. You tell them how you gained clarity and wisdom, how that helped make sense of your life, and how you changed as a result.

 

Give words to the principle you learned—think of the takeaway as a precept, a saying, a guideline, an adage—something readers can live by, a principle that can be life-changing for them, too.

 

Your takeaways are the most powerful part of your memoir. They offer readers hope, or wisdom, or courage, or laughter, or a solution, or a new way of living or loving.

 

Your takeaways communicate to readers:

“I know this is true because I have experienced it.

I have lived it. It changed my life.

Perhaps it will change your life, too.” 

(Read more at Your memoir’s takeaways can change lives.)

 

Below you’ll find examples of takeaways. I hope they’ll inspire you to share with others about both mourning and thanksgiving:

 

“At first glance, the thought that there is a blessing in our wounds sounds absurd,” writes Julie Sousa Bradley Lilly. She lists memories of “betrayals, insults, abandonments, embarrassments, injuries, pain and loss. . . .”

 

“When I have resisted bitterness and sought [God] in a hard or painful circumstance, He has used it to transform me into a better person that chooses a different path. Betrayals made me loyal. Insults made me kind. Abandonments made me faithful. . . . And injuries, pain and loss made me more compassionate and generous. . . .

 

“Terrible things happen in this life, and I wouldn’t for a second minimize another’s suffering. I only want to offer an opportunity to exchange a label of ‘victim’ for one that says, ‘blessed.’” (Blessings in Our Wounds, Julie Sousa Bradley Lilly, Ragamuffin Warrior)

 

Below you’ll find several other sample takeaways to help you write your own takeaways:  

 

“I’ve learned to embrace change, and acknowledge my fears knowing that no matter what lies ahead, God is ever present and I never have to walk this journey alone. And neither do you. Let’s not forget that although change, closed chapters, and life moving forward may bring us saddened hearts, it also brings us out of our comfort zones, spurring new beginnings and opportunities. By altering our perspective, often without notice, little by little we transform—our hearts, our views, our lives, our faith. We become wiser, stronger, more resilient, and positive . . . . What a gift. One day at a time, we got this.” (Daphne Bach Greer—the Sweeter Side of Grief)

 

The Farm Wyfe, Amanda Wells, offers this: “I’ve done enough living to know there are seasons when life challenges us, when God gives us opportunities to trust him even when the outlook is bleak. Even when exhaustion overrides all else and I’m hanging by a thread, I trust him because I have seen his faithfulness. I’ve experienced God’s hand on my life and I know he will get me through the hard times. . . . because God’s got this even when I don’t.”

 

Kaitlyn Bouchillon writes about praying to God for relief from something awful, only to find Him silent . . . for a long time. Nothing seemed to change.

 

“It’s there, in the place where things don’t make sense,” she writes, “. . . that a miracle begins to take place.”

 

She offers this takeaway: “This is the hard but beautiful truth: The ‘other side’ of The Thing you’re hoping for, praying for, daily asking God for . . . it might not end up looking like what you hoped/prayed/asked. It might be that what changes is  . . . you.

 

“It might be that instead of walls falling,

by God’s grace and His strength,

at the end of it all you’re still standing.

That’s still a miracle.

That’s still an answered prayer.”

 

Kaitlyn's words, “It might be that what changes is you,” reminds me of my own experience of transitioning from mourning to thanksgiving, in Colombia, South America, after suffering several months of culture shock at a remote mission center named Lomalinda (pretty hill). 

 

Equatorial heat and intense humidity brought me to my knees. 

I was utterly discombobulated and, in desperation, I refused to unpack and threatened to run away and walk (!) all the way home to Seattle by way of Central America, Mexico, California, Oregon, and finally arrive in my Washington State.

 

But, after a few months of settling into my job and getting acquainted with Lomalinda’s people, to my surprise, I discovered that I loved living there.

 

I wrote in my memoir, Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go: A Foot-Dragger’s Memoir:

 

“In moving to Lomalinda, I had taken a wild-eyed dive of faith and, halfway into it, I wondered where I’d land. And when I did land, I hit the ground hard. That place seemed so alien and harsh—yet that’s where God rescued me from myself.

 

“I had flown into the mission center as a scared, immature, unadventurous, doubting Thomas. God didn’t need me to accomplish His work in Colombia—He could have found someone else to do my job. He did more inside me than He did through me, and I suspect that was His point all along. He knew my faith and I needed to mature.

 

“Through situations, experiences—sometimes derailing, other times almost imperceptible—God expanded my heart and soul and mind and revolutionized the way I would look at life and Him for the rest of my days.

 

“He showed me that despite my fears and weaknesses,

He is strong.

When chaos reigns, He is in control.

When the unpredictable happens, He’s already there.

When I am vulnerable, He is my protection.

Exhausted, God is my strength.

Under that searing Lomalinda sun, God sheltered me,

and my family, under the shadow of His wings.

When I wanted to pull back,

He took my hand and nudged me forward,

and when my grip grew weary,

His brawny hand held on.

He sat beside me when I grieved over

taking my kids away from

their grandparents, aunts, and uncles.

He became my calm in the storm,

my rock when my world shook.

Every moment, every day, every night,

He hovered over my family and me

and calmed us with His love.

Sometimes God even showed His sense of humor,

though at the time I usually failed to appreciate it.

 

“ . . . If I had refused to move to Lomalinda, I’d have missed tarantulas and scorpions and cockroaches and howler monkeys’ breathy howls in the distance and cicadas’ ear-piercing whistles and parrots’ rowdy calls morning and evening.

 

“I’d have missed eating piraña, boa constrictor, caiman, dove, platanos, ajiaco . . . and cinnamon rolls seasoned with dead weevils. . . . I’d have missed drinking chicha, and tinto, and warm bottled sodas, sometimes with bugs inside.

 

“Before Lomalinda  . . . never would I . . . have envisioned myself chopping up a dead pig on the kitchen floor. . . .

 

“But moving to Lomalinda, despite my whines and protestations, took me—physically, culturally, and spiritually—to places better, higher, and finer than anything I could have dreamed.

 

“Glenny Gardner had welcomed me by showing me the coolest thing he could think of—a boa constrictor. In the same way, Dave wanted his wife and kids to experience the coolest thing he could imagine—living in Lomalinda. Rich offered me the coolest opportunity he knew—a trip to La Guajira. And from the beginning to the end, God, too, was offering me the coolest thing—working in Lomalinda.

 

“God had allowed what I would not have asked for

to give me what I didn’t know I wanted.”

(Catherine P. Downing, Sparks of Redemptive Grace)

For more inspiration, click here to read Ashley Travous’s takeaways in her powerful post, To the Woman Who Stole My Husband.  

 

You’ll also find good insights from Reflecting on God’s Wonders in Difficult Times.

 

Take plenty of time to craft your takeaways. Pinpoint your message. Clarity is your goal.

 

Your takeaways will strengthen your readers' faith. They will give them wisdom that they’ll take with them long after they’ve read your final page.

 

Your story can offer hope to those in despair. Your story can model courage overcoming cowardice.  Your story can model calm for those tangled up in chaos.  

 

Your story can shine light in the darkness:

 

“At times, our own light goes out

and is rekindled by a spark from another person.

Each of us has cause to think with deep gratitude

of those who have lighted the flame within us.”

(Albert Schweitzer)

 

Who needs to read your story?

Someone is waiting for your spark to rekindle theirs.

 

Part 2: What can you offer readers about mourning AND thanksgiving?

 

. . . . Continuing from last time: How can you write accounts in your memoir that embrace both mourning and thanksgiving?

 

For some of you, Thanksgiving brings back the pain of a heartbreak you endured in the past at this time of year.

• Every time Thanksgiving rolls around, you remember the first time you had to look at that empty seat at the Thanksgiving table. And it’s still empty this year.
• That special person’s favorite song keeps playing in your mind.
• Or Thanksgiving always reminds you of the time you miscarried . . . again.
• Or someone shot you, leaving you paralyzed from the waist down.
• Your boss fired you and you saw yourself as a total failure.
• You remember Thanksgiving as a time of enduring the unimaginable, when you were crushed in spirit, unable to shake the heaviness.

 

It was a situation you never could have predicted or would have chosen.

 

Since then, you’ve struggled

to find joy in the Thanksgiving season. . . .

 

And yet . . . . And yet . . . .

 

Now, looking back years later, you recognize that

there’s more to your story.

Something to be thankful for.

 

In some unexpected, surprising way,

not only did you survive, but now

you acknowledge the silver lining of your heartache.

 

You came out on the other side of your sorrow

thanking God for the blessings wrapped up in the hurts.

 

He brought beauty from your ashes:

He gave you the oil of joy—a joyous blessing—

instead of mourning,

and a garment of praise

instead of heaviness and despair (Isaiah 61:3).

 

That’s what you want to put in writing

for your family and friends.

 

How did it happen?

 

If you haven’t sorted through that already, I encourage you to do so.

 

Take time—make time—to examine the past. Be deliberate.

 

Peel back layers and discover what you hadn’t noticed before.

 

How, specifically, did you travel from grief . . .

 to anger,

and then to hope . . .

and then to some degree of healing?

 

I say “some degree of healing” because most of us, despite the mending and restoring and rebuilding, still have an ache in our hearts.

 

You might be saying, “But I still have scars!”

 

I understand. I still have scars, too.

 

But a scar is not the same as a wound.

 

A wound is an injury, a laceration, a blow, a rip, a break.

 

But a scar is

“a mark left where a wound or injury or sore has healed.”

(Oxford American Dictionary)

 

A scar is what you have after you’ve mended.

The bleeding has stopped. The scab has fallen off.

 

Instead of thinking of a scar as something damaged,

defective, or disfigured,

isn’t it better to see the scar as something that has healed?

 

Think of your scar as an emblem declaring you survived, as evidence of healing.

 

 

Take a good hard look at the way God answered prayers. You might not have detected them at the time, but looking back, you can clearly identify God’s specific answers.

 

Notice the people God brought into your life to shine a little light in your darkness.

 

What Bible verses popped off the page and gave you hope for the future?

 

• Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted (Matthew 5:4).
• The Lord is close to the brokenhearted, and He saves those whose spirits have been crushed (Psalm 34:18).
• Those who go to God Most High for safety will be protected by the Almighty (Psalm 91:1).
• He has put His angels in charge of you to watch over you wherever you go (Psalm 91:11).
• They will call upon Me and I will answer them. I will be with them in trouble; I will rescue them and honor them (Psalm 91:15).
• “I know what I am planning for you,” says the Lord. “I have good plans for you, not plans to hurt you. I will give you hope and a good future” (Jeremiah 29:11).
• “At the right time, I, the Lord, will act. . . .” (Isaiah 60:22)
• I give new life to those . . . whose hearts are broken (Isaiah 57:15b).
• He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds (Psalm 147:3).
• Weeping may last through the night, but joy comes with the morning (Psalm 30:5b).
• How long, Lord, must I call for help . . . ?  I will stand like a guard to watch . . . . I will wait to see what He will say to me; I will wait to learn how God will answer my complaint (Habakkuk 1:2, 2:1).
• God knows where I am going. And when He tests me, I will come out as pure as gold (Job 23:10).

 

Note turning points or significant events.

 

During the early stages of what I call my personal 9/11, when I despaired of ever really living again, for some inexplicable reason I planted nasturtium seeds.

 

Shortly afterward, it occurred to me that that was a strange thing for a person to do who feared she might not survive. Would I live long enough to see those seeds sprout? Maybe even blossom?

 

Soon I was deeply moved by discovering that a seemingly insignificant activity—planting seeds—was an act of faith and hope for the future.

 

I clung to that tiny ray of hope day after day and, before long, nasturtiums began to bloom, and I was still alive, and the flowers were brilliant. Planting those seeds was a tiny but significant turning point for me—one of many.

 

Look at that green!

Let me tell you another beauty-from-ashes story. One day when my husband and I lived in eastern Washington, a wildfire raced through our part of the state, destroying mile after mile of crops, barns, farm equipment, and houses. In every direction, as far as we could see, the world was all ash.

 

But, to my surprise, a couple of days later I could see wee little green grasses sprouting up through the ruins. Mile after mile, I noted the lovely, hopeful green! My heart rejoiced! God had already begun the healing process. That, too, was a turning point for me.

 

What were your turning points, the pivotal moments?

Identify them as you write.

 

This next part is important:

Remember, your readers want to know

how you navigated

through your crisis

so they can do the same

when they go through their own unwelcome challenges.

 

They look to you as a role model.

 

You do that by including TAKEAWAYS for readers.

 

Do you remember what a takeaway is?

 

Next week we’ll cover takeaways. For now, work on your rough drafts, praying your way through the writing, and offering readers the gift of both mourning and thanksgiving.

 

Your story is going to be great! God is going to use it.