On working

I’m often told I work too much. A fellow branding professional asked me not too long ago about my work schedule. “When can clients get you on the phone?” he asked.

“Always.”

His eyebrow quirked up. “What if you’re playing with your kids or it’s nighttime or the weekend?”

I smiled. “My kids know Mommy is clear on what she’s been called to do. They know I love them because I say it. I hug them. I play with them. I’m engaged with them. But, I answer the phone. They listen. They learn.”

We talked more about why I don’t have “office hours” and how that impacts the other areas of my life. I considered our conversation after he left and have continued thinking about it. Why am I content – peaceful, even – about the mountainous amount of hours I work?

Two reasons: It isn’t work. It will stand the test of time.

It isn’t work
I’m very blessed to have figured out early on how God made me to operate and in what fields that works best. Okay, I didn’t really figure it out – wise people pointed it out, but that’s close, right? What I do for a living, I’d do anyway, even if money wasn’t involved. It’s who I am. Who I was created to be, just as much as I’m meant to be Mom and Wife and Daughter and Sister and Friend.

It will stand
More importantly, though, is the sure knowledge that the work to which I put my head, heart, and hand is work that will stand. I just re-read Jeremiah 51, another rendition of how God will avenge Israel and basically annihilate Babylon, the country that dared to mess with His people and His consecrated worship items. The lines of verse 58 gave me pause.

The builders from many lands have worked in vain, for their work will be destroyed by fire!

A spurt of sympathy shot through my heart, thinking of those guys watching the ruin of all their work. Walls that their bloodied hands struggled to build would come tumbling down. Why? Because they worked for the wrong boss. As we say here in the country, they hitched their wagons to the wrong horse.

Once again, that conversation with a colleague came to mind. Why do I think letting my children see me work is more important than playing CandyLand uninterrupted? Because they need to see their mother make a decision for the work that lasts. They need to know the hard truth: God is a priority above them. I love them more than my next breath, but I must love the One who gives me breath more. I have to trust that He really is in charge. That His timing really is loving. That, when a project lands in my lap which requires urgent focus and attention, He knew what was coming even before we got the CandyLand box from the closet – and He’ll hold my little ones’ hearts while I am about His work. As a matter of fact, He’ll hold them more perfectly than I ever could.

And, just maybe, I’ll raise kiddos who trust Him, too.

 

Should Adults Correct Adults?

Correction. The word breeds conflict and discontent. Visions of iron bars. Shackles. Life sentences. Judgment. Yet, if you’re going to do anything in life like, oh, step outside your bedroom, you’ll eventually encounter an individual who clearly needs correction. (That encounter comes more quickly if you check the mirror before heading out.)

Managing conflict wisely is a hard-won skill acquired through painful trial and error – a/k/a choking on a lot of crow, washing it down with a shot of regret. We all walk around with so much hurt, need, desire, confusion, anger, and disappointment that the actions we take to cause conflict are often inexplicable to the ones we hurt.

It’s testament to my mother’s consistency that I can recite for you nearly every instance in the Bible where parents are given authority over their children, where they are instructed to train a child, to teach a child, to correct a child. What I don’t see in the scriptures are verses giving me authority as an adult to correct other adults.

Now before you go all Matthew 18 on me…well, okay, let’s go there. Matthew 18 says if a brother or sister sins against you…that Greek word for brother or sister is adelphos and refers to a fellow disciple. It’s the same word used in the same chapter – twice! – when we’re told to forgive our adelphos seventy-seven times, and to forgive from the heart. I’ve always thought this verse to reference Christians with whom I am in real relationship. For instance, if my girlfriend Denise at church with whom I text daily, suddenly sins against me, Matthew 18 instructs me to “go and tell her her fault, between her and me alone.” And steps are given if she doesn’t listen.

On the other hand, I don’t take Matthew 18 to instruct me to “go and tell” a fault to every Christian in my church, despite that fact that those Christians are brothers and sisters in the faith. Can you imagine the back and forth bickering that would ensue? “Sally Sue, your hemline was so short you should be ashamed. Christian ladies cover their legs at least to the knee.” “Well, Rebeca of Storybook Farm, Christian mothers stay home and raise their children. They do not have callings to fulfill outside the home in a job.” Oh my, I can just picture purses flying and high heels coming off while a weary pastor looks on.

No, Matthew 18 exists to protect and develop relationship with each other. If Denise commits a fault against me, it hurts. There is a break in our bond. Breaks have to be acknowledged or they fester into full-blown feuds. So, I’m instructed to go to Denise and make her aware of the fault she committed against me. (Love ya, Denise. Sorry you’re my guinea pig here.) If our friendship is truly based in love, it will pain Denise that she hurt me (intended or otherwise) and we’ll talk it through so that forgiveness is requested, given, and received. The relationship—like a broken bone now healed—is stronger for weathering the conflict.

It’s also important to see that Matthew 18 says to point out the fault (even KJV uses that word). Why is fault important enough to risk conflict among each other by pointing out? I think there’s a clue in Jude 1:24, “To him who is able to keep you from stumbling and to present you before his glorious presence without fault and with great joy…” Being faultless is something Christ alone makes us. Learning to recognize fault in ourselves and eradicate it, then, makes our minds more like His. There is no greater goal than to be more like Him.

Pointing out fault, though, is not the same as correction. I see a big difference between, “Hey, I think it was wrong when you lashed out at me in anger. It hurt,” and “Hey, I think it was wrong when you lashed out at me in anger. You should have responded with kindness instead, remembering to love me even when speaking truth.” The latter involves correction. (Not to mention spines stiffening and hackles rising.)

When the Bible uses the word correction, it gives authority for such to God. Solomon talks repeatedly in Proverbs about the foolishness of not accepting correction. He never, though, ascribes the source of that correction to a human being.  In fact, for humans with a desire to correct, Solomon says, “Whoever corrects a mocker invites insults; whoever rebukes the wicked incurs abuse.” (Prov 9:7) In Jeremiah, God is speaking to His people Israel and says, “In vain I punished your people; they did not respond to correction.” Later, Jeremiah says, “Lord, do not your eyes look for truth? You struck them, but they felt no pain; you crushed them, but they refused correction.” Accepting God’s correction is an action taken by those who love and respect the Lord. He’s clear about that all over the Bible. Check out Zephaniah 3:7, “Of Jerusalem I thought, Surely you will respect me and accept correction!”

The only Biblical instance I’ve ever found of adults being told to correct (reprove) adults comes from Paul’s first letter to Timothy—and even then it’s a reference to correcting an elder after three people have brought the same charge against him. I think sometimes Paul was just too tired to be writing in portions of this letter. I mean, he contradicts himself regarding widows (I Tim 5:11-12—young widows who marry are breaking their first pledge, then check out verse 15 where he tells young widows to marry. Notice I’m holding my tongue on the statements in between.). He tells us women to not wear gold or pearls, so there goes my wedding ring. There’s more, but I digress. The point here is that the one instance of an adult being instructed to correct (reprove) another adult is here…and it’s an instruction for when to publicly bring fault against an elder in the church.

“Semantics, Rebeca. What’s the point of all this?”

To me, whether we desire to point out fault to a fellow believer with whom we have relationship OR correct a fellow believer is an outward manifestation of an inward motivation. Pointing out fault requires vulnerability – admitting to someone that they have power to hurt you, or that their actions in your regard matter to you, have an effect on you. Pointing out that someone sinned against you opens you up for rejection. You wouldn’t take the risk if you didn’t love the person and value the relationship.

Correcting puts you in a position of authority. You can hide your hurt or embarrassment or pain within the cloak of “teacher” whose self-worth and identity are impervious to the fault-doer.

But only God stands alone from humans in identity. He made us dependent upon each other for relationship. He made us dependent upon relationship with Him. He is not dependent upon relationship with us. He allows us to exist in relationship with Him, but He doesn’t cease to be all He is without that relationship. We, however, do cease to exist as full creations when we are not in relationship with each other and Him.

And that very lack of dependence on us is what suits only Him for correction. (Incidentally, it’s also why parents are given authority to correct their children. A child’s actions toward a parent’s correction shouldn’t affect the parent’s self worth or identity.) God brings our faults against Him to our attention. He did so over and over in Scripture. He does so today—we put the term “conscience” on it most times. He gives us that opportunity to reject Him. Too often, we do. So, he knows that hurt of rejection to a degree far more than we ever will individually because He’s experienced it since the first human opened eyes and gazed upon planet Earth.

But His being doesn’t alter when He is rejected the way ours does. He is not vulnerable in that way; we are. Rejection does not change His motivations; it changes ours.

This is why Scripture shows a God who corrects. It requires complete removal of self-interest and pure, loving desire for the one at fault to be whole, even if that wholeness requires His pain. Humans do not eradicate self-interest when they are wronged. We do the opposite; we exalt self-interest and demand vengeance. We lose care for the one who wronged us. Our motivation for action shifts to self. God’s motivation remains what it has always been: loving us into the wholeness He alone provides.

Given the fiery discussion I recently had on this topic with a colleague, it’s probably a good guess that some out there think my position is nuts. Maybe I’m totally off base. Maybe I’m showing my immaturity as a believer (27 years is a long time to be a Christian, but a blink compared to others’ journeys.) or ignorance of Scriptures (I haven’t completely finished my re-read of the Bible yet this year!) or obsession with word choices (wordsmiths unite!). Here’s your chance to point out my fault.

 

When Dad Goes Silent…

1979. Birmingham, Alabama. Daddy and me in his 1975 black Chevy Impala. On our way to pick up Momma in Florida – she’d gotten homesick while attending a Tupperware convention. (Seriously.)

Daddy, no doubt tired of my incessant 20-month-old babble, had grown silent. Silence and I get along as well as tornados and trailers. We didn’t use seatbelts back then, much less car seats. I crawled my way over to Daddy and planted a chubby little hand on each of his cheeks. Jerking his face toward me, I declared, “Wook at me when I’m talking to woo.”

So, yeah, I’ve had a thing about silence from a father figure for a while now. Recently, my heavenly Father went silent on me. He’s done this a handful of times in my twenty-seven year walk with Him. You can just imagine how well I respond to it. That Presence that is as real as a heartbeat, as my next breath, goes still. Quiet. Unnoticeable. There’s nothing to check my thoughts against. No inner compass. No guide. No direction. Nothing. Just quiet.

Tailspin.

I begged. Pleaded. Raged. Cajoled. Altered behavior. Changed course. Resumed course. Gave my own silent treatment (because that’s such a wise thing to do – attempt to manipulate GOD). Still, nothing.

Exhausted from my attempts to goad Him, I quit. Last Saturday night, I sat down in the doorway of my two-year-old daughter’s bedroom. Ella had tried every toddler stall tactic in the book to withstand bedtime.

A drink. “No, Ella. It’s bedtime. Go to sleep. I love you. Goodnight.”

Another trip to the bathroom. “No, Ella. It’s bedtime. Go to sleep. I love you. Goodnight.”

Something to cuddle. “No, Ella. Go to sleep. I love you. Goodnight.”

Another book. “Go to sleep. I love you. Goodnight.”

A different pillow.

Another nightlight.

On and on she went. After a while, I quit responding. My heart ached. I hate telling my kids no. I always second-guess if I have to say no in that moment. I thought it through and knew my responses were only giving her the idea that the conversation needed to continue. She hadn’t asked for anything extraordinary. As the parent, however, I knew she needed to put herself to sleep and rest more than she needed any of her requests met.

Which is about the time that nudging came. Nothing giant. No Damascus Road blinding light. More like a subtle clearing of the throat. But I knew that Presence. I knew that Voice. I sat up.

What?

Reviewed my thought process.

You’re kidding. THAT’s why you’re quiet? So I’ll REST?

If you know me, you know I’m never still. Ever. If I’m still, I’m dead or have fainted. I keep the caffeine drip of Diet Mt Dew up all day long. Some burn the candle at both ends. I say a candle with two lights can light up two more pretty quickly. I’m fairly faithful to take everything to God – to run it by Him, ask Him to do this or cause that if He needs me to know something.

I’m not so good at sitting down and waiting on Him to speak. I bring him topics, ask for His input, and race on. But what about just coming into His presence and having Him choose the topic? What about resting and letting Him lead the conversation?

I took the next day – ironically, Sunday – to rest. He talked. I listened. Okay, I argued. He loves me and gives me grace to do that. (Whew.) He got some stuff on the table I’d been neglecting. Let me see His perspective on my walk. Still no Damascus Road moments. At the end of the day, my life wasn’t sewn up perfectly.

But He was back. Which meant I could breathe again and know that it isn’t always about taking the next step forward, even if I’m checking that step through with Him.

Sometimes, it’s about shutting up and lying down.

 

Unrealistic Expectations?

My partner, Steve Feldman, and I were recently on a call with an author who was considering Reclaim Management for his representational home. Having reviewed the man’s existing novels and upcoming project ideas, I felt particularly heightened interest in bringing him into the fold. His ideas were stellar, and his manner seemed like a very good fit with the rest of the Reclaim authors and artists.

We enjoyed an hour of great talk wherein Steve and I explained the intricacies of Reclaim (converting every book project into a screen project, affording authors free PR for product launches, growing a family of creatives who work together). I sensed we’d neared that point in the conversation where everyone needed to go their separate ways, pray about it, and decide to move forward either together or separately. As always, I asked the author if he had any further questions for us before we ended the call. His question, at first, caught me off guard.

“Well, Rebeca, I’ve been listening intently to what you and Steve are saying and it sounds almost too good to be true. You guys have brought it all together and I love your vision and passion. I guess I’m just wondering…do you think you’ve set my expectations too high? Can you guys really do all this? Really achieve this big of a vision?”

My mouth was open before I had a chance to think. “No,” I said.

Everyone burst out laughing, including me. “Okay, let me clarify that. I work for a God who’s bigger than I can fathom. And I know, without a doubt, that the vision Steve and I have is really His. We’re not smart enough to have come up with all this. We’re just the people who said, ‘Yes,’ when He crafted this particular plan. Are the tasks we face giant? Absolutely. But I have no stress about whether it will come to fruition because this is how God works in my life. He always has. God took this granddaughter of a coal miner and a farmer, and decided to plant her in the world of stories to get His truth out. He gives big dreams and I just start putting one foot in front of the other and there He is, at every step.

The only way this doesn’t work is if He decides for it not to. Steve and I are all in, fully committed to what He’s doing and willing to do what He wants, which doesn’t always make sense to us in the immediate. So do I think we’ve set unrealistic expectations? No. Because I expect God to keep doing what He does.”

Steve echoed my sentiments, recounting a few of the things God’s done thus far in our business journey together to assure us of His presence and control. I hung up with a smile on my face and a renewed expectation for the journey ahead.

How does God reveal His dreams for you? How has He shown up in your circumstances? Go ahead and share – I love hearing stories from fellow travelers!

 

Leading Like a Shepherd

A few weeks ago, our interim pastor (Elliot Linhoss – fantastic man of God) preached a sermon designed to prepare the church for the arrival of the next pastor. He shared principles for being good sheep and the principles our new pastor, Kylan Mann, would hold to as the church’s new shepherd (under God’s direction, of course). The entire sermon was fascinating, but one point mentioned off-handedly by Elliot really caught my attention:

In the Middle East, shepherds lead their sheep.
In Europe and the U.S., shepherds push their sheep in the desired direction.

I’ll admit, I missed the next few minutes of the sermon in order to contemplate the different approaches. As the leader of a management firm and PR firm, I’m always seeking wisdom concerning leadership. The responsibility to keep things under God’s direction, to chart the proper course, to equip and enable a team, to achieve results in the right manner – these things rarely leave my mind. Fascination flew through me. As the shepherd of Glass Road and the co-shepherd of Reclaim and Reload, do I push or do I inspire others to follow?

I tuned back in when Elliot shared that shepherds must first love the sheep. When sheep are loved, they follow the one who loves them. They know who will take care of them, who they can trust to keep them safe and fed. In the Middle East, shepherds have a relationship with their sheep borne of continual presence. The sheep know it’s in their best interests to follow the shepherd because they’ll be taken care of.

These thoughts still swirled in the mental tornado when I ran across this passage last week: “Do all that you have in mind,” his armor-bearer said. “Go ahead; I am with you heart and soul.”

The passage is in I Samuel 14:7 and takes place when Jonathan has the idea to go take on the Philistines who are camped nearby, since he’s certain God can give him victory if God but wills it. The situation is impossible through earthly eyes. Giant guys fully equipped with the finest weapons of the day. Jonathan and his armor-bearer holding crude weapons made from farming implements since the Philistines hadn’t let a blacksmith make an Israelite weapon in an Israelite camp. That armor-bearer could have logically told Jonathan he was nuts.

But he didn’t. He’d watched Jonathan, been by Jonathan’s side through countless fights, and witnessed God’s direct presence in Jonathan’s life, heart, mind, and soul. Jonathan didn’t have to push this sheep up the crevice to the Philistines. He led and the sheep followed. God gave them victory that day.

The armor-bearer’s blind devotion birthed hunger in me. How incredible to be under a leader you do not have to question! To place complete, unhesitating trust in a leader because you know he/she is looking to God for direction! We have that in God, the same way Jonathan did.

Which, of course, led me to wonder: do I lead like a Middle Eastern shepherd or like an American shepherd? Do I lead like Jonathan? If I turned to my “troops” and gave them an outlandish directive (like, oh, climb a crevice and take on an enemy who outnumbers us and is better equipped than us—yeah, Hollywood and the old way of publishing, I’m talkin’ about you), would they follow?

Stick around. We’ll find out together.

 

Sweet Silence

Do you ever want to just be quiet? I work in the world of words – books, stories, screenplays, pitches, dialogue, monologue, email, text, voicemail, Facebook, Twitter – the word-flow is unending. Words hold value. They convey meaning. They wield power. And they’re being tossed out without forethought. Like they don’t have an effect.

Sometimes, words overwhelm me. I crave silence. Simple silence. No one communicating. No message to hear or decipher. Just silence.

The problem is that I suck at being still. I know, I know. All my Christian readers just thought, “‘Be still and know that I am God,’ Rebeca, it’s in the Bible.” You’re right. A close friend of mine, Russ Pruiett, sings a gorgeous version of that song. Every time Russ sings it, I smile. I am still while he sings.

But then the song ends. And the phone rings. Or my kiddos need something. Or the Droid dings. Or my husband has something to share. Or a client has an idea. Or an author/artist wants to talk about coming into Reclaim. Or an editor wants to talk about acquiring a project. Or a publisher wants to see if GRPR can provide publicity for a book. Or a family member needs a writing favor. Or, or, or. All the words rush back in. They’re important words. They need my attention and reaction. To show love, I must listen and give a considered response.

Except I crave silence. My ears hurt from hearing, my eyes ache from reading.

I have to give myself permission to be quiet and sit in the silence. To not think about what needs done, who needs what from me. To just go rest in the Father God’s lap and be quiet.

How do you manage to be still? Do you have a special place to which you run for silence? A ritual that ushers in the quiet?

 

Intimacy?

I enjoyed a fantastic half-day meeting yesterday with one of our artists in Reclaim Management. Early on, our conversation turned to what “intimacy” actually means. At Reclaim, my business partner and I committed to only bringing in as many authors as we could maintain close relationship with. The goal wasn’t to be a giant management firm with hundreds of authors, but a niche firm catering to a specific clientele and growing key individuals’ career paths. We want close relationship and real community with our artists.

“What breeds intimacy in relationship and community, though?” the artist asked. “I’ve been thinking about that and I think it’s surrender.” I listened as he explained that to surrender yourself into a relationship, to put the other person’s needs and desires above your own, to think first of the other and then yourself, to give up control, to surrender your need and instead focus on giving, creates intimacy in all relationships–business or personal.

Given that I’m still making the three-hour drive to Nashville every week, I have a lot of time to mull over talks like these. Yesterday was no exception!

In the past two weeks, I’ve been thrice “accused” of being transparent. As a former manipulator/control freak, I appreciate the accusation as outward proof of the inward changes God is working through the years. I thought back to those years when my greatest fears included not measuring up to the idea of me others possessed. There was a lot of NONtransparency in those years. And did I have intimate relationships as a result? Sadly, no. Many would probably have said they were close to me. About two would have been right.

So, I would add a requirement to the “surrender” concept the artist suggested: authenticity. I can pretend to be about the other person, pretend to surrender. I can fake self-sacrifice and humility–especially if I have limited contact with the person. I’m sure you can think of “ministry workers” who fit this description, too. However, when surrender and authenticity combine, a relationship rooted in truth and honesty manifests. Those are the “sweet” relationships we cherish in life. The ones to which we gravitate when life revs up.

Authenticity sparks a need to embrace vulnerability, which is of course why most hang out on the route I took early on–fake it. If someone rejects your fake self, it’s not a true rejection, right? If someone, however, knows you and rejects that, you’re in for some pain. For me, the realization that pain births wisdom negated the need to protect my authentic self from rejection. In short, I decided to listen to Solomon’s wise words, “If it costs you everything, get wisdom.”

What breeds intimacy in your relationships? What barriers did you embrace along the way that robbed you of real community? How did you recognize them? Let’s see if we can help steer each other into stronger community and relationships…

 

The Privilege of Work

“Rebeca Seitz.”

“Hello? Is this how to get in touch with Danny Wallace?”

A lot of calls to my cell start this way now. It’s happened more often since I began working with people like Danny—people whom God has healed and restored after unimaginable pain, people who are transparent about the years the locusts ate and the redemption God brought.

“Yes, you’ve reached Danny’s publicist. How can I help?”

“I’m not sure what to do.”

He paused and I threw up a silent prayer. I’ve come to know what to expect when they’re at a loss.

“I heard Danny speak last year and—

More silence. Then a sob.

“I don’t know if he actually talks to people, but my son—

Again, he couldn’t go on. I murmured understanding and prayed through the silence. God, give him strength.

“My son was molested when he was five.”

The same age that Danny’s abuse began.

“He’s 15 now. He just told us. I don’t know what to do. I—

His broken voice faded away. I waited, telling the “fixer” in me to be still. Experience has taught me the best gifts sometimes are patience and silent prayer. God, give him You.

He started again. “I’m sorry, I—

I cannot bear hearing apology for true brokenness and a cry for help.

“Don’t be sorry. You’ve done the right thing. I am so sorry you’re going through this. Give me your number and I’ll have Danny call you.”

“He’ll do that?”

This breaks my heart every time. Have we become such celebrities that we no longer really engage with the hurting? Have we so conditioned the congregation to see the speaker as “special” or “set apart” that there is no actual connection between speaker and hearer?

“Absolutely, he’ll call. Tell me your number.”

Danny—as he always does—called the man as soon as he hung up with me. He was in the midst of Christmas celebrations with his grandchildren and children when I called, but he went to a quiet room and called a man whose world had imploded. He offered comfort and care and prayer, I’m sure. Then he emailed me to let me know he’d made contact.

My days are hectic. I’m sure yours are, too. They’re filled with tasks that feel important and that, in some instances, are. Homeschool my five-year-old. Love on my two-year-old. Kiss my husband. Write a press release. Brainstorm a promo event. Secure funding for a film project. Feed the dog. Write a book proposal. Buy groceries. Follow up with an editor. Ghostwrite a chapter. Create a brand. Big stuff.  Small stuff. Stressful stuff. Routine stuff. God-given and God-directed stuff.

I can get stuck in the stuff. I can even start resenting that there’s so much of it. It starts to feel like work instead of privilege. Today, though, a phone call reminded me.

Today, a man knew where to find help for his son. And I got the privilege of having a part in that. Of connecting the hurting man to the healed man.

Thanks, God. It’s a privilege.

 

Lead by example?

Ugh. There they were again. My five-year-old son’s clothes lay in a heap in the bathroom floor. I debated whether to pick them up or call him into the room to teach him the lesson of putting his own clothes in his own hamper. The easy path, of course, was just to pick up the clothes. That wouldn’t eliminate the need to pick them up again tomorrow, though, and the day after that and the day after that. Except, well, I’ve taught him to pick up his clothes a million times and I stood staring at evidence that my lesson went unlearned.

So, what to do? Why did my otherwise brilliant son refuse to pick up after himself? How could I trick, um, teach him to be responsible for his own belongings? Why weren’t my words being heeded? I sighed and bent to pick up the clothes. As I did, a scrap of red clothing caught my eye.

Not two feet from the small bundle of my son’s clothes lay another heap. Red tank top. Black shorts with embroidered cherries. Nick and Nora label peeking out. Uh oh. Only one member of this family wears Nick and Nora and you’re reading her words. The reason for my son’s behavior lay on the floor, daring me to ignore it. Why should he put his clothes in the hamper when Mommy didn’t even bother?

I sighed, shook my head, and gathered up his clothes and mine. As I left the room, I couldn’t help but think back on the cities I visited this past week and the people I met with. In many instances, the conversation centered around what’s wrong with publishing and/or movies and/or television and/or Christendom and/or a combination of all those, and how to “fix” it. Several told me they’d been talking about these ideas for years, but no one had listened yet.

Years? Really? I thought about that and realized that I could say the same. For six years, I talked about ways to partner creators of written product with producers of motion picture product. I sat on panels and at roundtables all over this country and batted ideas and opinions like a kitten with a string. I wondered why our ideas stayed just that – ideas. Why were the clothes still on the floor year after year?

Three weeks ago, we announced our partnership with The Sam Hill Group. The feedback has been tremendously positive. About a dozen authors and actors now call Glass Road/Sam Hill their home for representation and promotion and a couple dozen more are awaiting calls and emails after we’ve had a chance to review their existing material and decide if we can help. Publishing houses have called to ask if we’ll come up and share our ideas and authors, I suspect because they love the idea of acquiring an author who comes with promotional support. Organizations call to see if our actors can come perform, probably as a response to viewing the stellar promo videos Sam Hill creates for our clients. To be frank, it’s overwhelming. All we did was stop talking about an idea and do it.

My new business partner says often that the concept we’ve embraced isn’t complex, isn’t an idea unique to us. God has ordered our lives and careers to uniquely suit us to execute the idea, but the idea – of partnering authors of books with the motion picture industry and vice versa in a seamless manner – isn’t new. It’s been talked about. For years.

All we did, really, was pick up the clothes.

So I thought I’d ask my fellow Christians what I was forced to ask myself this morning – why are your clothes lying on the floor if you’re trying to show the world the value of picking up its own clothes? Why do you talk day after day, week after week, year after year,about a miraculous, creative, all-powerful God and what He can do and the ideas He’s granted, but do nothing?

There’s a time for discussion, of course. There’s a time that God uses to prepare us to execute the idea. When we let that time bleed into the moment when we’re to pick up the clothes, though, we rob the world of seeing by our example what can be done when we internalize the very concepts we attempt to share in His name. We steal the power of the action by talking it to death.

That’s enough words, I think. Time to go do…

 

the delicate nature of timing

Timing. Just the word makes me stress. I sat down at my beautiful black lacquer-finished concert Baldwin piano tonight and pulled out familiar sheet music. Too many ideas and musts crowded my brain, which nearly always drives me to those keys. There’s a simple beauty found in the act of playing this piano.

I’ve never sat before it without thinking of the sacrifices made to provide it to me. My family and the Rockefellers had as much in common as a spool of thread to a Vera Wang gown. Yet I walked to the top of our house’s steps the morning of my sixteenth birthday and beheld the gorgeous sight of my dream made reality: a concert piano. The gold letters declaring it a “Baldwin” may as well have read ”Perfection”.

So, with the stress of the tasks I face these days pressing in, I went to the keys. I played through familiar favorites, waiting for the ease to flow back into my fingers. When I’m away from the piano too long, my hands forget how to translate feeling through notes. It takes a few songs before I feel that connection made and playing becomes more about being, less about doing.

I pulled out “Canon in D” by Johann Pachelbel – if you don’t recognize the name, you would the tune since many a bridesmaid has floated down the aisle to its steady, building presence. In the middle of the piece lies a minefield, a gathering of notes that require intricate fingerwork. Hours of practice have instilled that fingerwork so solidly that I rarely look at the music anymore, placing it before me only as a safety net.

But tonight, my mind rushed ahead. My brain skipped to the next note and then the next before the required one sounded. It was as if my mind kept saying, “Come on, come on, we have to hurry.” All through the minefield, my fingers fumbled along, trying to run ahead with my thoughts. With a sigh, I finally stopped. This wasn’t working. The only thing reflecting back to me through the piano’s shiny surface was my harried expression.

Which is when I realized—timing. “Canon in D” is one of the more beautiful pieces of music I know. Yet my inability to follow its timing ruined what my hands produced.

Being a Christian is like that, too. Someone said to me earlier today that she wished she’d made different decisions early in life so that she could have avoided some major heartache and difficulties later. I told her I didn’t aspire to a trouble-free life. Trouble brings us closer to God and prepares us for the work He has for our hands. It’s as welcome as the easy times.

Which is why I sit here now thinking about timing and the tough stuff of life. Until I brought my mind in submission to the timing of the piece, I could only produce cacophony. Likewise, as a child of God, until I put my will under the submission of His plan and timing, I can only stumble along, fumbling the keys, missing out on the thrill of the intended melody.