Meet My Friend Marsha, and LAMBU

Great art is often born of great pain. Read about Vincent Van Gogh and you’ll never look at his paintings the same way again. Each brush stroke was an outward expression of his inner angst. Poor tortured guy.

It’s the same for writers. Dylan Thomas, Upton Sinclair, and Jack Kerouac, for example, all drank themselves to death. This unfortunate relationship between creative expression and pain permeates all artistic forms. Not even comedians are immune. Komedy is excellent kamoflage (bwa-ha-ha). Sometimes, funny people have "unfortunate" personal biographies. John Belushi and Chris Farley come to mind... as does my long-time friend, Marsha Marks.

I met Marsha at a Lifeway in Savannah, GA almost a decade ago. She was sitting at a card table behind neatly stacked copies of her latest book, hawking them with the shame and subtlety of a carnival barker. Usually I flee from bawdy book-selling blondes, but Marsha's charm and sense of humor engaged me from the start. Plus, her eyes twinkled. M has very twinkly eyes.

We got to be friends, mostly because she was invitational, and I needed her. I was going though a rough patch that I didn't understand, and because of her past, she was able to shed some light. And  Lawd did she make me laugh! She has been my cheerleader and writing mentor ever since. Most importantly, Marsha has taught me that a true friend is never too busy to meet for coffee, and is never to proud to ask for encouragement.

I knew Marsha for eight years before she told me her story, a small part of which she bravely shared this week at heartland. Please stop on over there and read not only her personal story, but also the samples of her new eBook, Lambu Looks at the Bible. You'll be glad you did.

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Click here to buy Marsha's eBook, Lambu Looks at the Bible.

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Described by her pastor as "Lucille Ball meets Billy Graham," Marsha has written many books (some of which are pictured below), including three for Random House.  A former flight attendant, Marsha lives in Savannah, Georgia with her husband Tom and daughter Mandy.

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Go Team!

I used to be a theater designer.

Usually when I make this statement I add the preface, "In another life... " because it was so long ago and I left so abruptly and so completely, it seems more like a dream than my actual past.

But yes, I was a costume and set designer in NYC, where I lived in Manhattan apartments sub-let from touring actors, generally from August through May. For many consecutive summers I worked at a huge outdoor theater in my hometown, St. Louis, eventually becoming the lead set designer. I met lots of famous people. In fact, I have seen many prominent actors and actresses in their skivvies, but I can't mention names without breaking the International Costume Designer's Code, so please, don't press me. Back in the Big Bad Burg I was a member of I.A.T.S.E. (International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees AFL-CIO NYC local one) as a set designer, a lofty achievement for a twenty-something chick from the midwest. Are you impressed yet? If not, how about this: I turned down admittance into the masters of theater arts program at Yale. Twice.

I left because I wanted a life that was a bit less whack-a-doo. Oh, and also because I had a broken heart. The end was, as I mentioned previously, abrupt, and also tragic, but on the up side it was a new beginning. I met the guy that I would marry not long after I fled, and life has only gotten better from there.

These days, you would have to hog-tie me to get me into a theater. The experience just brings back too many memories. And I hate to admit this, but after working for years on super high-quality shows, I am an intolerable snob. The strain from trying not to roll my eyes might paralyze my face. Please, mercy! Don't invite me to your church's production of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. I wish I could come but I am busy from now until forever. (I know, I am horrible. I hate me, too.)

Recently, unexpectedly, I've been thinking a lot about my former life. I loved show business—the glorious lights, the smart, catty people, the pathos—and, frankly, I was very good at what I did. This, actually, is what I miss most: being a valued member of a highly-talented team. I loved being trusted, and being able to trust my friends who each excelled at his or her specific profession. Sometimes we didn't even have to talk much to explain what we needed from one another. We just looked, and nodded, and we knew what to do and did it. And I loved how it all came together in the end. I have searched for that kind of professional experience high and low since I left. Until recently, I haven't found anything that can hold a candle to what I had in NYC with my fellow theater folk. I miss that very, very much. I am finding something similar in the small publishing company for which I've been free-lancing, and (unrelated) am overjoyed to announce my inclusion in a brand-new team of authors. We are calling our site heartland, at least for now, and this week it's my turn to post. Look for something new from me there on Wednesday. Meanwhile, stop on by and have a look. Marvelous essays by my friends Margie Miller and Jean Foster Akin are right there at the top, waiting to be read.

Love and peace, and may each of you find your spot on your own perfect team,

c

Hello, Santa!

When my little brother was six, he caught my dad putting gifts under the tree. As an adult he told me, that was the moment he became an atheist.

"I suddenly knew it was all a lie. Santa, God, the whole thing. Nonsense."

His confession fueled my distaste for Santa.

I never wanted our family to pursue the Kris Kringle charade with our son. Telling him about Santa felt like a lie. And the commercialism was so ridiculous, not at all what Christmas was supposed to be. (I was haunted by this jingle from my childhood: ♬ Almost anything you wanted, and didn't get for Christmas, is on sale now at Sears! ♬)

But. My husband is a jolly guy, as is my father. My voice and my opinion were drowned out by The Chipmunk Song and Rudolph. The gifts stacked up, and it was fun, and as I prayed, I relaxed.

Four or five years ago our little guy developed an interest in Chinese calligraphy, and decided to ask Santa for  a "Chinese computer" — a keyboard on which he could type all of those thousands of beautiful characters. We explained Santa's inability to grant such an unusual request, but Gray's belief in the old elf was stalwart. At a holiday party, he went over our heads, bringing his list to the Big Man himself. Fred and I lingered at the table, watching him. He shot us a few glances as he waited his turn. Words cannot adequately describe the emotions that were flying around that banquet hall between the three of us, but I can report with certainty that each was in a different "place." As for me, I was near the corner of Help us, Jesus, and I told you so, Dear.

We bought him a box full of Chinese rubber stamps. Friends contributed how-to-draw-Chinese-character books, with beautiful pens and inks. Fred wrote a letter from Santa explaining, "I'm just a man who makes toys, Gray. My workshop is not equipped to make a Chinese computer, but you are so smart and talented, I know that you can learn to draw those characters all by yourself." And there were other gifts to open, and Christmas was saved.

Gray's belief in Santa finally came to an end last year when he was ten, with no ill-effect whatsoever. His theology remains intact. The shift had been so subtle, in fact, I had to ask him to remind me how he figured it out. "Did we tell you?"

"No," he said, "I recognized your handwriting on the to-from tags."

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Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own. ~ Matthew 6:34 NIV

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Merry Christmas, everybody!

Love,

Catherine

grocery grace

His cart was in my way.

He had apparently lost all self-awareness, for it was parked directly in the middle of the condiments aisle. Lost in contemplating varieties of canned olives, he didn't even notice my attempt to gently reposition his cart—perhaps because he was now engaged in conversation about canned olive varieties with a lovely young thing who, rather than messing with an unwieldy cart like me, had wisely chosen to carry a small basket on her dainty arm. She (also wisely) avoided my eyes as I pushed past them.

I saw him again half an hour later as I was looking around for help at the self-check.

The muffins I had grabbed on a whim from the bakery had no bar code. They sat on the scan bed as I waited for the attendant to key in their secret umber. I knew better than to try to remove them from the pad—experience had proven the folly of such a desperate measure. The light at my self-check kiosk was flashing, and I knew that a button on the attendant's monitor was blinking as well. Only, he was ignoring it (and me), because he was busy solving other people's grocery emergencies.

Olive-man was scanning items at the kiosk to my right, between me and the attendant. I prayed for God to help me forgive him for blocking the way, earlier. I also needed help forgiving the deli staff, who had skipped my number and made me wait no less than twenty-eight minutes for three-quarters of a pound of sliced oven-gold turkey. I was very close to hating the deli staff.

I prayed for patience as I watched the bald, moustachioed attendant chat it up with two lovely young things. He was ignoring me with perfect form. I knew that he knew that I was waiting... and he knew that I knew that he knew. This guy was no amateur.

A variety of clerks ambled by. Dum-de-dum. One smiled and kept walking. None of them acknowledged my plight.

"Are you okay?" asked Olive Man.

He was kind. I realized I must have looked confused, silently standing there watching the monitor.

"Just waiting," I said, glancing over at the attendant and gesturing at the self-check screen. "It told me to wait."

He smiled and continued scanning, as I continued waiting.

Remembering the words of a former bible teacher, I prayed, "Jesus, I am all out of patience. I need some of yours, please."

Moustache was wrapping things up with the girls. Olive Man leaned my way. "You are very patient," he said.

I suppressed a chortle. "I'm trying," I responded, immediately wishing I had confessed to him my complete inability to exhibit ANY patience on my own, and my need for God's help. In reality I was about two seconds away from an appearance on the evening news, and, possibly, jail time.

How amazing, that on the exterior, I seemed patient.

And on my way out to the car with a tiny bag of groceries that I should have been able to gather in ten minutes—certainly not forty-five—I prayed a new prayer: "Thank you!"

(Jesus said,) "My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness." So now I am glad to boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ can work through me. ~ 2 Corinthians 12:9 NLT

ode to a fish

We have strange ways of seeing. If we only knew — then we could tell. If we knew what we saw, we could paint it. ~ Robert Henri, The Art Spirit

Sometimes I wonder, Why write?

I can't concoct fiction—that takes real talent. All I can do is record my own thoughts. It's not like I'm thinking or experiencing anything unique to humankind. I am annoyingly predictable. Even this question—Why write?—is as common as cod. Hasn't everything already been said by others who are better skilled?

I'm just another fish in an overcrowded ocean.

And then I visit a museum. The walls are covered with landscapes, still life and abstracts, but most of all with representations of the human form. People lounging, dancing, sitting. Artists never tire of painting the human torso. Portraits are so... common. And yet, they have always been universally commissioned and self-assigned, studied and adored.

Of course, the sitter varies from one canvas to another, but that's not what we flock to see. That's not what moves me. Rather, it's the way the eyes in Rembrandt's self portrait penetrate my soul as they follow me around the gallery. It's the deep emotion I feel in every jab of van Gogh's brush, and the way Mary Cassatt's color and composition capture the sweet innocence of childhood.

We cherish the painting because of the painter. It's all about the stroke of the brush, made by that one specific hand, at that particular moment in time.

Writer friends, I know I'm not the only one fears rejection, and is easily discouraged. I know that you, like me, grow weary from time to time. The pen may be all too common and your hand may be just another hand, but the combination (your hand working the pen) is unique, a rare and valuable treasure.

The world wants and needs to hear from you.

Let the redeemed of the Lord say so. ~ Psalm 107:2

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Yes, I wrote this for you (you know who you are), with love and the best of intentions.

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The above illustration by Violet Lemay includes these paintings, from left to right: "Self Portrait as a Young Man," Rembrandt van Rijn; "Portrait of Joseph Roulin," Vincent van Gogh; "Young Mother Sewing," Mary Cassatt.

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I, It, and Thou

The particular It, by entering the relational event, may become a Thou." ~ Martin Buber, I and Thou

She startled me.

I was sitting behind a table loaded with books at Barnes and Noble trying to complete my first-ever on-line Hamburger Haven order. For more than two hours, I had been smiling at strangers while trying not to look like a pushy sales girl or a desperate author. My eleven-year-old son (home alone for the first time AND not feeling well) was expecting me at four-thirty, burgers in tow. In short, I was ready to bolt.

So when she approached my table in mid-rant, a tumbleweed of silver hair and crabbiness, I instantly put up a wall...

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To read the rest of this story (which I wrote as a guest over at Turning the Page, a blog run by my friend Barry Pearman), click here.

October Baby

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My heart is stirred as autumn finally takes the edge off Savannah’s long, hot summer. I love October, month of my birth, out of reflex. As a child I counted down to my birthday for weeks. Now in my mid-forties, I’m too old to care much about the actual day. Aging doesn’t bother me yet; I don’t actively dread the date, as some women do. I feel their angst, but for me, my birthday is just another day, lost in the usual flurry of weekly activity. Still though, there is a sentimental quickening in my heart, a pleasant, persistent heat, generated by thoughts of October.

In October of 1966, a teen-age girl in Belleville, Illinois gave me away—me, her infant daughter—ending the heartache of my adoptive parents’ infertility. God, bless that woman, whoever, wherever she is. October reminds me that I was born, that I was a baby once, and that life, with all its drama, is a gift.

I look at photos of baby-me: cute, despite the obvious use of forceps during delivery (peanut head). My favorite is an 8 x 10 studio shot taken when I was almost two. Careful inspection reveals a tiny bit of Scotch tape on the very top of my bald head, where my parents affixed a modest bow. According to family legend, this bit of satin ribbon was a necessary accessory, a clue given to circumvent the usual questions concerning gender, announcing to the world, “Yes, she is a girl.” Apparently the crisp, dainty cotton dress they chose for the occasion wasn’t a strong enough statement. The bow makes me laugh and cry all at once. God, I love my mom and dad. Thank you for my parents. I love how much they loved me.

Seeing myself as a baby incites my motherly instincts. I would never allow anyone to bully or torment this little girl; if she were my daughter, I would defend her to the best of my ability, throughout my life, regardless of her age or mine. And yet, I routinely allow my inner critic to rage against her, to pick on her for every mistake and imperfection. Not any more though. No ma’am. Sunday I write on the inside cover of my bible, in ink, “Enough.” You are no longer welcome here, Critic. As a birthday gift to myself, I hang the Scotch-tape-and-bow photo in pretty frame so I can see it every day. I wear a tiny copy of it in a heart-shaped locket, a reminder that God created me, and that he loves me, a lot.

In October, I celebrate life.

For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. ~ Psalm 139:13-14

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Originally published on October 19, 2011 at baaaaa.com.