elora nicole

in which i always have words.

August 6, 2012 — 4 Comments

i started my manuscript the usual way – closing my eyes, feeling the keys, and letting my fingers fall instinctively where they may.

it took awhile to get in a rhythm. this book is all together different than come alive, and that scares me for two reasons. one, i still plan on writing a book two to stephanie’s story, and i don’t want to lose her voice. second, this plot (and my main character) frighten me.

emerson is her name. she’s feisty when she should be silent. her mouth will get her in trouble – i’m sure of it. she’s strong, she’s volatile, and she’s refuses to put up with facades for very long.

the problem? she’s right in the middle of the biggest facade of her life, and she has no idea, and i’m shaking when i type her story because i’m a little weary of how she may react because really? i’d be a hot mess. but she doesn’t let me type how i feel i’d react very often. in so many ways, she reveals her independence in subtle ways – throwing up a brick wall in the middle of dialogue, making me rewrite scenes, and forcing me to pick up the paintbrush so i could figure out what the hell she feels when she’s in the middle of streaking her heart across the canvas.

i like her.

but i don’t like her story.

it’s taking a lot of courage i wasn’t expecting to put word after word on the screen, forming this history of pain and hidden darkness. in so many ways i know so much of what she’s been through – in so many ways i have no idea.

isn’t this writing? penning from our experience with a touch of creativity?

the other night, i texted a friend. “i think i’m supposed to write about this chik-fil a brou-ha-ha and i’m scared out of my mind.”

he replied quickly and succinctly: “if you have the words, you are meant to write them.”

i cling to this as i return to emerson’s story. i realized this morning when i can’t find the words, i feel caged. for the past few weeks, i’ve felt caged with this manuscript – frozen with wonder over questions i still have about come alive, trying to figure out how to do this whole full time writer thing, and pushing the words away as soon as i feel their hint.

that’s right. for the past few weeks, i imagined not having any words. i imagined never finishing her story, stuck in fiction limbo while i dream up other plots more suitable to people’s comfort.

today i was reminded: when have my stories ever been concerned about comfort?

i will always have words. always. i know this because He promised me. when i don’t have words, it forces me to ask what stories i’m hiding – what fires i quench before they can take shape in my bones.

because i cannot hold the words for very long. it’s impossible. some how, some way, they’ll push through my fingers and will fall where they may. they remind me of emerson. arms crossed, foot tapping, look of disgust shadowing her face - buck up and write the damn thing. she’d say.

so i will.

In writing

there is grace waiting.

August 2, 2012 — 15 Comments

tonight, i passed by chik-fil a and cried.

i didn’t want to say anything. i kept my mouth shut for most of the uproar and didn’t see my place in a majority of the arguments. i hate confrontation.

but tonight, passing by the lines of cars and the people waiting in lanes to get their chicken, something happened.

they got it all wrong, a Voice whispered in the deep space of my bones. the tears came quickly then – a rush of hurt, my heart folding in on herself and bracing against the pain.

i thought of a close friend, going through a severe loss. i know nothing of her pain, but i know how to ache with her, pray those silent words of please and Jesus - just whispers, really. all day i’ve relied on the groaning of the Holy Ghost to speak for me because words have fallen still.

i thought of my sister, fresh from a trip to Nigeria with stories of islamic women who want to know more of this Christ who loves them even when and who can calm the hunger caused by ramadan as well as the hunger within.

i thought of our future child, relying on the nutrients from the womb of an unnamed woman who somehow will find the courage to say yes when everything inside, including her heart, screams no.

i thought of the night two friends stayed until the wee hours of the morning, talking faith and doubt and ”what about these scars from where my dad hired men to beat me and burn me alive? huh? does God still love me then?”

and i wondered how in the world our priorities got all skewed.

in the bible, Jesus often chastised the most pious with stories of simple faith and extravagant love. and while we are encouraged to be prepared to give an answer for the hope that we have, i find it hard to believe this rests in a piece of chicken. i’d like to think it has more to do with how we’re able to make it in this crazy, broken world without giving in to the hate.

listen. no one was surprised about dan cathy’s position. everyone knows we all crave his restaurant at the most inopportune time – sundays, when they’re closed, so families can worship together.

and no, i won’t be boycotting chicken biscuits.

but there’s a point for me where my relationship with others weigh more than greasy fast food. there’s something inside that shifts whenever my Facebook blows up with good, Christian people encouraging others to support Christian values by going to the closest Chik-Fil-A and buying some chicken.

i just can’t get on board with it. i can’t. my heart can’t take it, my wallet’s too thin, and i’d rather sit on my porch and talk with my neighbor who is sick and gay and loves my dog as much as he loves his great danes.

i think this is what Jesus would do if He showed up on my doorstep. i think He’d sit in the pain of my closest friend, hold the hearts of nigerian women taking steps of faith, and rub His nail-scarred hands over the burnt wounds of our friend who knows the messy middle of wanting so badly to be free but not knowing how to strip away entanglements holding him down. i think He’d do all these things, and not worry about whether or not people thought less of Him because He failed to eat at someone’s house or live up to the expectations of the Pharisees.

and so i’ll cling to this. i don’t know the answers. i’m not a politician so i can’t tell you how to feel or act. all i know is tonight, i cried while passing lines of cars waiting for chicken, and i almost didn’t tell you.

the words fall hot, though and i can’t not share.

today, we got it wrong. we did.

but tomorrow, there is grace waiting, and we can do much better.

In compassion, faith

a falcon? a storm? a song?

August 1, 2012 — 7 Comments

am i a falcon? a storm? a song? (rilke)

it’s difficult to quantify a month into a single post. on june 30, i stepped away from this space and allowed others to take over in order to share their moments of bravery. we heard about letting go of control, saying goodbye to relationships, traveling to a foreign country and what it’s like for a waiting mama to hold her breath {and her heart}.

while these friends shared, i read. a lot. i napped in a hammock, the breeze through the leaves serving as a summer day lullaby. i rested in another hammock, watching a storm blow closer and closer – the lightning dancing across the sky. i bit the bullet and published some short fiction.

we adopted a dog.

i visited prudence and we hash tagged our way to san diego, where cool breeze and crashing waves waited for us.

i went to la for the first time and hugged the neck of a dear friend and swapped stories over lunch and witnessed the greats at the getty art museum. oh and, i saw diane keaton on santa monica pier, clad in a dog collar and sun glasses, laughing with a guy as if it was the most normal thing in the world for her to be there - right in the middle of everything else.

and here’s a hint :: it absolutely is normal.

essentially, these past 31 days, i lived.

i welcomed a new decade of life and wrote over 10,000 words to my new manuscript, a novel that overwhelms me in all kinds of different ways from come alive.

most of all, i sat in the questions.

i’ve come to love rilke and his stubborn, wild love for those around him. he speaks truth into me when there’s not much left i can hang on to, and this makes sense since growing up, i read more from the psalms than any other book in the bible.

poetry sings.

rilke, he understands the search. he knows that disguised since childhood, haphazardly assembled from voices and fears and little pleasures, we come of age as masks…

and for the past 31 days, more than the beach or the lake or the writing or the reading, i’ve come to realize the masks i’ve worn for so long have gotten so ill-fitting. i’m stripping them off, one by one, and finding the real Elora – the one He knit together in my mother’s womb, before the hurt and confusion.

jeremiah 33:3 says He will tell us great, hidden things we haven’t known. this describes my july. secret message after secret message, whispered in my ear in a language only He and i know, while He peels the layers of pride and anger and shame away from my wooden heart.

In the {true} and the questions

{shae} telling terror to take a seat

July 31, 2012 — 8 Comments

editor’s note :: i’m taking a break this month to work on a new manuscript. some of my closest friends have agreed to fill this space in my absence with their thoughts on bravery and what it means for our faith. you can read the rest of the posts here. today, shae shares her words.

These days I have to will myself to wake, when the shrill shriek of tick-tock-time’s-up severs through my dreams. In that moment, as my eyes hinge open and “my doubts start to gather” (as Relient K aptly sings), the most terrifying thought for me is this:

Put your feet on the ground and stand up.

It is terrifying because I don’t know what’s going to happen after I excavate myself from under the covers. Sure, I’ll have breakfast and shower and brush my teeth (in no prescribed order), but then what?

I whimper a little and plant soft, warm soles against hard, cold floor. Terrified.

I quit my job close to six months ago – it wasn’t working out. Call it stupid or ungrateful or naive, and maybe it was all of the above, but I call it a kick-up-the-butt in the right direction. Since then, I’ve been freelancing. You laugh – we all know it’s just a fancy word for trying to get work (hopefully, with fingers crossed) in an area you’re relatively skilled in.

It seems to me though, that the more I fight to find what fuels me (and let’s be honest, puts a few pennies in the purse), it’s like doors have been shut, are sliding closed, are slammed in my face or set alight. Occasionally there’s a window, but doors are a lot easier to get through standing up.

So it remains: that terror. The terror that grabs hold of my gut when the sun meets the skyline, as I cement stubborn feet one at a time, to the freezing floor. The terror is there every time I have to rise. It’s there after a business meeting, as church draws to a close, when I have to get out of my car, leaving a coffee shop after catching up with a friend. The words resound:

Put your feet on the ground and stand up.

The stab of “deer in headlights” terror leaves me with about a second and a half to decide what I’m going to do. There are two options: I can shrink back and skulk my way through the day. I know I’ll make it, but I’ll sleep later, bitter and exhausted from effort. Or I can plead for a strength that is not my own; a strength that not only gives me the power and will to stand, but empowers me to fight and press on when I feel I have no where to move to. I plead to Jesus.

Here is Jesus who has seen terror up close. I have no doubt he – my perfect Jesus – faced terror as he stood before the tree-limbs nailed together in the shape of a cross. The wood he would, and did, hang on left no room for confidence or calm as the crowds mocked and taunted and beat.

But my Jesus knew the source of His strength – not His own, but from He that gives all things: God. He that overcomes, and overcame, all weakness: God. He, who’s perfect love drives out all fear, terror, despair: God.

History has been made when standing at the feet of fear. (I bet they’re massive feet too!) Noah knew the flood would come. Moses would appear before Pharaoh and be turned down again and again. Moses raised his staff to the Red Sea before death swarmed. Daniel was thrown into the lion’s pit. Joshua was not even half the height of the walls of Jericho. Gideon had only ever known fear before God met him on the threshing floor. Mary was pregnant – a virgin – with the Christ.

Terrifying? Yes.

Truth: Jesus has overcome – He is with you.

Triumph? Total.

Tomorrow when terror tries to take its toll and I’m torn between pulling the covers back over my head and edging my toes towards touching down, I will tell my heart to sing:

“In the morning when I rise.
give me Jesus.
When I am alone.
give me Jesus.
When I come to die.
give me Jesus.
You can have all this world,
but give me Jesus.”

BIO :: Shae writes avidly between trying to find her voice and her purpose. She lives in storytelling South Africa and fills her time with good books, good friends, good music, and good wine. She loves coffee and cats, but can’t stand balloons. She enjoys a good run or a hard game of squash, and is a relatively skilled musician. She believes in hope and grace and trusts the merciful, and sometimes messy, makeover in an ongoing process of redemption.

In a moment of bravery

{erin} even if the sky falls in.

July 30, 2012 — 1 Comment

To the sweet baby boy who, according to Baby Center, grew eyebrows this week,

When I received the automated email listing your general achievements this week, I was mesmerized. You are truly incredible. I have imagined your sweet nose, paper-thin fingernails and toes- tiny and delicate. I have imagined a full head of soft black tucked under the little cotton caps every newborn comes home in. I’ve heard your quick tiny breath in the night while I’ve searched for sleep. I’ve even imagined all the different young men you may grow into, what you may want to do with your life and what it be like if you have children of your own. My brain should really get a raise for all this work it’s doing.

This week’s email said that you are just less than one pound, the length of an average carrot and have fully grown eyebrows and eyelids. I immediately prayed that you would have fabulous eyebrows and love carrots. I bet all waiting mothers end up here- praying that their babies have nice eyebrows. Because every second of every day, we have been praying for everything else under the sun for you.

Today, I also prayed God would make you extra brave; that you’d be brave enough to bare the weight of things far greater than you. You see, I cannot protect you. No matter how much the mom-fire burns in my belly there’s nothing I can do to make sure you are okay. Nothing. And sometimes, I’m quite sure it’s killing me. This is so much to ask of you at only twenty-two weeks old, but if ever there was a time to be brave- this is it. And we will be here to love you even if the sky falls in. I promise.

Sweet boy, I already owe you an apology. I have made these last few weeks about me, especially the last few days. Instead of praying for you I’ve been running between anxiety and total self-pity, with my face buried in a pillow hidden under the covers or sitting until my backside numbs on the cold tile of the bathroom floor. Yesterday, I slept on the couch because my cozy bed felt wrong without you here.

I’m scared. Because the sliver of possibility that you won’t come home with us after all, stared me in the face this week. As the fear overwhelmed, I became obsessed with my own comfort. I am so sorry. (Even though by now it’s obvious, I should tell you that I’m not perfect and these won’t be my last mistakes).

I’m not sure if bargaining is an acceptable parenting method, and you’re not my boy yet, but we need to make a deal. I promise you, the pity parties are over and I need you to stay-put and grow strong for at least another twelve weeks.

You are strong enough for this. I just know it.

With all the love in the world,

A waiting mom. Hopefully yours.

BIO: I began my life at my grandmother’s house in West Texas, riding horses and searching for arrow heads. After surviving adolescence, I carved out a life in Austin where I married a photographer, gave-up on writing and recently started writing again. You can find more at A Peculiar Love, where I write about our adoption journey and at Find Me In September where I write when I’m feeling brave.