The One About Fickled Fingers Part II

My intention today was to delete this blog, as I have done in the past.

Yet, when I went to go export this blog into a PDF, I could only do it one year a time (with the free plan), and then that’s when I realized I’ve had this blog since 2014. Long time, but it’s not even the time that caught my attention, it was my first post that made me pause. The post The One About Fickle Fingers is all about deleting the previous iteration of my blog and starting up a new one.

So, I decided to take a pause. Why am I deleting this blog? Why do I delete things? Because I don’t even do this with just blogs, I’ve done this with my podcasts, YouTube videos, etc. (And you may be reading this thinking, she had a podcast? She had a YouTube series? Yes, Yes I’ve had them but you WILL NEVER SEE IT because it’s been deleted.)

So, what’s the purpose of this blog?

This blog is for me. It’s for me to process and to share what God is doing in my life, although I haven’t done much of that this year. Why? I have become more private with age. I’ve seen how people vomit on the Internet and I think it’s quite ugly. And this blog is public, though few read it, and so I question will my future self thank me for what I post?

And yet, here I post. 

So, I think I will continue to post on here. And maybe I will delete it. Or maybe I won’t. I am fickle after all.

Writing: An Odd Sort of Inner Life

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I seem to live two separate inner lives: the one is my normal day-to-day existence filled with thoughts of work and ministry, whilst the other is a continuation of creating and building a story, a world, and characters that yet to exist. It’s trying to fill in plot holes, understanding motivations, and allowing characters to tell their own stories in the in-between moments of my regular life.

Anyone else relate?

A Commitment to Write

Whilst in Scotland,* God reminded me that I am a writer. He made me to be a writer, so I need to write. It’s that simple… yet I make it complicated. I allow myself to get bogged down by the responsibilities of my daily life. I allow guilt to pierce my creative bubble and rob me of a real joy that I have in my life.

So, I’ve made a commitment to give myself one night a week to write. I know it doesn’t sound like a lot, but I’ve set other items as a priority over my writing for too long. And it’s not like, “Oh, I watch tele every night, so I’ll stop watching The Crown one night a week to write.” (I wish this were the case.)

No, most of my time is spent either working too many hours at my day job or spending the remaining hours serving God and His Church. And don’t get me wrong, I am not complaining as I love it. I love that I am able to use my skills for His Kingdom — that’s what I pray for!

But it’s also nice to know that God has given me a desire, a passion, to tell stories. And you know, I am going to do just that.

 

*This will never get old

Take Courage; A hymn by someone who doesn’t write hymns

I am doing a daily devotion on American Hymns by She Reads Truth  and it’s inspiring me to write my own hymns. I figured I would share one. Unfortunately, I don’t know how to write music or else I would share with you the tune . So, I recommend finding your own tune if you’d like to sing along.

It’s been a great discipline of writing my own words of worship, taking my favorite Scripture (see below for what I am referencing), and worshiping God in Spirit and in Truth.

Take Courage

Let your heart take courage
Let your heart take courage
Let your heart take courage in the Lord

Let your soul find rest
Let your soul find rest
Let your soul find rest in the Lord

And all will be well
When the Son returns
Coming in the clouds of heaven

And all will be well
When the Son returns
Coming like a thief at night

There will be no tears
There will be no mourning
There will be no pain
in Him

And all will be well
When Christ, Messiah returns
When promises delivered
When prophecies fulfilled

So let your heart take courage
Let your soul find rest
All will be well
All will be well
In Him

Song inspired by Psalm 27:14; Psalm 62:5; Revelation 21:4; Revelation 1:7; 1 Thessalonians 5:2

Changing Spaces

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I have been working in my writing alcove for the past year whilst living in my place. There’s been some good nights and not-so-good nights in that little space. The not-so-good nights can be defined as: nights where I did not sit there and write.

Now that my roomie has moved out and the second living area is open, I have decided to temporarily set up shop there until the new roomie moves in. I’ve been thinking about it all week. Sometimes you just need to change up the atmosphere. That’s why writing in cafes and bars around the city has encouraged many a words, but alas this lady has little money right now so spending money to write is not the greatest idea.

So Saturday will be my writing day in my new space!

Today my goal is to finish mapping out the novel. I, unfortunately, have been writing this novel for so long that I wrote out of chronological order, so I need to go back and map out where I’ve been to go forward. This is another reason why I have stalled on this book. I hate mapping out my creative work, but alas I need a framework to continue on this story. I have never done this part before and it’s obvious that I haven’t because I have six novels that need to be finished.

So, I need to get crackin’ because this life isn’t that long and I am easily distracted.

What’s your Saturday goal?

 

Writing Prompt: How Did You Wake Up This Morning?

Let’s start off April with some writing prompts because I need help to get back into writing.

Prompt: How did you wake up this morning?

Rules:

  • Write for 15 minutes
  • Do not edit or proof
  • Choose whichever genre
  • JUST WRITE

I changed my room around yesterday. So when I woke up this morning I was no longer looking at a wall filled with hanging photos of friends, but rather the ceiling corner next to my window. It was still early. The sun wasn’t out. Yet who knows these days as the rain comes and goes bringing a darkness that just lingers.

I looked at the clock and it showed 3 o’clock in the morning. I still had at least another 3.5 hours to sleep, yet my mind was racing with what transpired in my dream. It felt so real.

Dreams are like a quilt of experience, memory, fear, and hope all wrapped up into some type of vivid narrative — well, for me at least. Blame it on the reading.

This dream was more of a nightmare, which was more a memory from my youth. A memory I didn’t remember until now.

I was young and alone at my childhood home on Campbell Ave. I was either eight or nine — cannot recall. My parents were both out, possibly working. They could also be down at the usual Block Party that happened during those longer summer California nights. My brothers were out — so maybe the Block Party does make sense — and I was reading in the living room when I heard the door bell ring.

We lived on the corner of a rather busy street for East Side; although, the neighborhood was pretty far away from actual town, so there weren’t many strangers that came through. You usually knew where you were going if you were to visit our neighborhood.

I came to the front door and asked who it was, and a voice, a shape, a shadow of a man said on the other side that he needed to use my phone. His car broke down and he needed to call for help.

Instinctively, I knew not to trust the shadow on the other side of the door. I was quiet, wanting so badly to see what he looked like, but this door did not have a peep hole and the windows had mosaic designs that altered the view.

I remember feeling scared and unsure of what to do. I didn’t feel like I had a voice to tell him to go away. What if that was mean? What if he really did need help? What if he got angry? What if he came in the house? What if he found out that I was home alone?

“Hi, Little girl, can I please come in and use your phone? I will be really quick.”

“No, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Well let me talk to your dad… your dad is home, right?”

Silence.

“So, you’re home alone?”

How could he figure that out, I thought? I panicked. What do I do? Is he a bad guy? Do I call 911? Or is he is a normal guy and I can trust him?

So, I responded, “I can call for you. Just tell me what the number is and I can call for you.”

“Just let me in. It will be really quick.” His voice had changed. There was an urgency to it. And then he started to bang on the door. Slamming his fists against it.

Instead of running to the phone to call 911, I laid on the floor as low as I could possibly get. Why? Well, you see the phone was in the room next to the door that had a window. If I went in there, what if he could see me? And if he could see me then that would mean I could see him and then he would be real.

Even at age eight I was still playing the game of if I can’t see him, he can’t see me.

He banged and banged on the door.

“Let me in!”

I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t say anything. I didn’t want him to trick me. I didn’t want him to know how scared I was. I didn’t want him to somehow get in the house using the power of language. So I laid on the floor, holding my breath, hoping he would give up.

And he did.

I heard a sound of a door opening but it came from the garage. It was my dad! The man must have fled, but I didn’t check. I wouldn’t check. That door was staying locked.

Looking back, I don’t recall telling my parent’s what happened that night. I wasn’t sure if it was real. Did that man really need to just use the phone? Or did he know that a young girl was home alone? Just like today, it felt like a dream — a nightmare. Would anyone believe me?

I went back to sleep and woke up at a reasonable hour still thinking of that nightmare. I know why it popped up in my head. I am now living alone and with that comes some fears. I am thankful to live in a multi-family dwelling, so I am not completely alone. I also live in a dense city, so that too also quells any fears.

Yet, I also know that this morning I was scheduled to be the Cantor and to lead service in the Lord’s Supper. There’s spiritual warfare going on, folks, and I am not blind to it. It’s been happening all weekend. Last night, with this; the night before, waking up in the middle of the night feeling as though spiders were all over me. Yup, another fear of mine, spiders.

I am not surprised by it. Living as a missionary comes at a cost. I know that God will not forsake me. I know that He fights for me. I know that I have weapons of my own to use and that I am not alone.  It will not destroy me, however annoying it may be.

Though it did scare me and scared me then as a little girl, I can’t help but thank God for protecting me that night. There’s so many instances in my life where some very, very bad things could have happened (and at times, some bad things did happen), yet God protected me and/or healed me.

So while the enemy tried to throw me into fear; I fell into God’s love and protection.

And that’s how I woke up.

The End of Tea Time With Tawny

homepage

Alas, the podcast experiment has ended.

I’ve hit my data limit. I can no longer afford to do this podcast, literally.

I’ve gone back and forth about it for weeks now asking: do I create a Patreon account (I did), do I ask people to help me fund it (nevermind), do I try to fund it myself (I can’t), or do I let the experiment end?

I’ve wrestled with it and I have finally come to the conclusion that it’s ending.

Thank you to everyone who listened to the podcast. Thank you for the encouraging tweets, messages, and conversations. It means a lot to me.

I had a great time doing it and I will truly miss it, but it’s time to say farewell.

So farewell.

The archive will still be up (though I had to delete some episodes to make space for the goodbye episode, which didn’t happen because it wouldn’t let me upload it without paying. So this is my goodbye).