denise Leora madre

Entertainment Weekly, 03.21.13 Modern America is fraught with division. Freedom to be ourselves begats freedom to dissent, and in every imaginable arena, differing groups are at odds: Democrats and Republicans, rich and impoverished, Delena fans and Stelena fans (as if there's any doubt) and the list goes on. But during the Independence Day festivities this weekend, I experienced a profound reminder that underneath it all, we are all the same.

Confession: I have not blogged in two and a half weeks. (Which, if you're a regular reader of my blog, isn't a confession at all.) I could cite many reasons for my absence—busyness, indecision, a two-day stint in the hospital—but in truth, only one matters. I wasn’t supposed to. A Writer's To-Do List Image Courtesy of kanate / FreeDigitalPhotos.net Now before I launch into this explanation, let me say I know how it works. I know blogging is one of the major activities distinguishing writers from everyone else on social media, that it is key in establishing a personal, professional brand and an online presence. It improves your writing by demanding frequency and variety and teaches discipline as nothing else quite does. Yet I have not done so in the last 18 days, drafted only one possible entry two weeks ago and that one right poorly. So why am I yet encouraged, excited, and proud of my inactivity? Because in not blogging I was doing what I w...

The calm in the storm. Image Courtesy of samuiblue / FreeDigitalPhotos.net Some church friends and I are each doing an Immersion Bible Study on different passages of scripture, the idea being to learn as much about the verses and their personal implications as possible. I am studying Mark's account of Jesus calming the stormy sea, specifically His command in 4:39, "Peace, be still." Those three words have provided much-needed comfort, strength, and constraint over the past few weeks.

Mom Guilt. Just seeing the phrase burdens you, doesn't it, Mom? For we all know what it is: that cloying heaviness blanketing your every deed and decision. The fear that no matter what you do it will never be enough or good enough. That everything in your children's experience that couldn't pass for a  deleted scene from a Disney movie will scar them for life and is all your fault. No, we’re not crazy. Just moms doing our best, seldom believing it's enough.

Image Courtesy of Stuart Miles / FreeDigitalPhotos.net It’s 6:15 a.m. I bolt out of bed, wanting to have some alone time in the bathroom before waking Jonan at 6:30. I grab my iPhone—heaven forbid I go into the bathroom without it—and check my Gmail account. There are more reviews for my most recently updated fanfiction, bringing the total on this chapter near the coveted 50. Score. Pleased with this turn of events, I then click over to Facebook to address the four pressing alerts awaiting me there. People liked my posts, invited me to view pages, or commented on something I also commented on. This is life-affirming stuff. How could I possibly begin my day without knowing these things? Meanwhile somewhere in the cavern of my heart, I hear this soft whisper. “Good morning, love.”

Image courtesy of anankkml / FreeDigitalPhotos.net Today is Good Friday, the day Christians remember the death of Christ. We remember this essential act of humility, his seminal sacrifice. We remember the deep love and commitment which held him to the cross and the life-changing affect it has on us today. We remember and we celebrate. What does that have to do with writing? Everything. The modern writer has so much to think about she might forget she’s a writer. For she is also an editor, a blogger, a self-critic, a publicist. She is a seeker of structure, an avoider of clichés, a stickler for grammar. But beneath it all, informing and fueling it all, is a simple truth. She is a woman with words within.

Image Courtesy of dan / FreeDigitalPhotos.net “To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven…. a time to keep silence, and a time to speak.” -           Ecclesiastes 3:1, 7b That phrase interests me—“keep silence.” Not “silent” the adjective but “silence” the noun, an object to be grasped and coveted. A tangible gift. And a gift it is, this gift of silence. Recent technical difficulties rendered me unable to check my email on my phone for a few days. From my laptop, I finally logged into the first account and was dismayed by the congestion in my Inbox. Of the twenty-some-odd messages, less than a handful were person-to-person and most of the rest were undesired. “Why am I getting updates from randomwebsiteIvisitedonce.com? How did this happen?”