A Few of My Favorite Things

I want to give a big thanks to the Breathe Writer's Conference for inviting me to share my thoughts on why writers need to include more poetry in our literary diet. You can check out my guest blog this week at http://breatheconference.com/home/featured-articles/tis-the-season-to-read-poetry.html.

Christmas is a great time to fall in love with poetry. Or if you're a poetry lover like me, it's a time to revisit old favorites. Here is a list of 25 of my favorite Christmas poems so far (and in no particular order):

John Donne, “Annunciation” and “Nativitie”

John Milton, “On the Morning of Christ’s Nativity”

George Herbert, “Christmas”

William Blake, “The Lamb”

Phillips Brooks, “The Voice of the Christ Child”

C. S. Lewis, “The Nativity”

T. S. Eliot, “Journey of the Magi” and “A Song for Simeon”

e.e. cummings, “little tree”

G. K. Chesterton, “A Christmas Carol” and “The Wise Men”

Luci Shaw:

    “Virgin” (in Writing the River)

    “Perfect Christmas Tree” (in Writing the River)

    “The Overshadow” (in Writing the River)

    “Some Christmas Stars” (in Postcard from the Shore)

    “Mary’s Song” (in Listen to the Green)

Madeleine L’Engle:

    “Tree at Christmas”

    “Song of Simeon”

    “Annunciation” & “After Annunciation”

    “Like Every Newborn”
    “The Risk of Birth, Christmas, 1973”

    “First Coming”

    “The Wise Men”

You'll notice my list is heavily weighted toward the Christmas poetry of Luci Shaw & Madeleine L'Engle. That's because (a) they are my poetry heroes, and (b) I believe these two, more than any other poets, understand and are able to convey the redemptive truth of Christmas as well as the poignance of the characters that make up the New Testament narratives. If you want to gorge yourself on nothing but their Christmas poems, I recommend their book WinterSong: Christmas Readings,

http://www.amazon.com/WinterSong-Christmas-Readings-Madeleine-LEngle/dp/1573833320/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1418662409&sr=1-1&keywords=luci+shaw+madeleine+l%27engle

Have a blessed Christmas, one and all, filled with the poetic whimsy of this beautiful season!

(Oh, and just in case you need some light-hearted silliness for Boxing Day…read “Santa andthe Reindeer” by Shel Silverstein.)

The Best Rejection Letter. Ever.

While I have submitted my poetry here and there over the years, nothing much ever came of it. Rejection letter after rejection letter. Disappointment. Discouragement. Admittedly, a bit of my inherited Dutch stubbornness to keep trying. 

Last summer I submitted some of my work to the Breathe Writer’s Conference and was awarded a scholarship, which gave my confidence a much-needed boost. After attending the conference in October and being so encouraged by fellow writers to continue submitting my work, I determined not to give up. So the first thing I did when I got home was to start sending in submissions again. I promptly received two more rejection letters. *sigh*

Then a friend messaged me a link to a call for submissions for a new poetry prize. (Thank you, Susie!) I selected my three best poems, composed a smashing cover letter, and sent my entry winging through cyberspace. And in all honesty, work and family life and holiday commitments have kept me so busy since then, I sort of forgot I’d sent it.

Until last evening when I received an email. What I thought was another blanket rejection notice turned out to be an early Christmas present. My heart swelled as I read the editor’s words:

“While you were not chosen our winner, we want you to know your work stood out to us in a positive way. We are unable to write a personal email to all of our submissions (we had over 350), so the fact you are receiving this note is important—we want you to know that we liked your work.”

They liked my work! Then came the best part:

“Your work was good and stood out from over 350 submissions, so please do not see this as a loss; it’s not. Please take this note not as a no, but a not yet….While you were not chosen, we know good things are headed your way with your writing.”

You’re probably thinking, Why is she so excited about a rejection letter? After all, they won’t be awarding me a shiny medal or a cash prize. Nor will they be publishing my work. To which I reply: Not. Yet.

This is the first time I received more than an impersonal form letter from a busy poetry journal editor. This was a personal communication, and it contained words of encouragement that my heart so needed to hear. Perhaps I should frame it, wrap it up in pretty paper with a fancy bow, then unwrap it on Christmas morning as a reminder: You’re a poet, Amy. Keep writing. Keep recording these words, images, prayers, feelings. Do your best work. Good things will come when the time is right.

Writing Hang-ups

Last weekend I attended a writer’s conference, and I came home completely energized, full of ideas, ready to write and submit my work for publication. There’s just one small complication: that’s all I want to do, but there are so many other things I must do. Like laundry. And dishes. And preparing meals for my family. Oh, and the small matter of these galleys that have been sitting on my desk for several days now and that I am supposed to be proofreading. Except the author attempted to use the plural noun “architects” as a verb (shudder) and did not know the difference between the noun insight and its verbal homonym incite (double shudder). And I know that’s why I do what I do, but right at this moment I don’t feel like it. I’m still back there with all my word people throwing around heady ideas like creating believable emotion in prose and writing theological memoir. I want to be writing my own stuff, not reading someone else's.

So I decided I’d write this blog post because, hey, at least I’m writing something. And  maybe…just maybe…spilling these thoughts onto a page will help me come down off the conference high long enough to actually get some work done.

Dear Dad...

It’s that time again, October, when all the trees are losing their leaves…and we remember the day when we lost you six years ago. Except we didn’t lose you. Not forever. You’re waiting for us to catch you up, I know. It’s just that the waiting on this end of eternity seems to take an eternity, and I  miss you—we miss you—and I wish I could call you up like I used to do just to hear your voice or ask you a simple question that I probably already knew the answer to but wanted to hear you say it, just to make sure I was getting it right. Because that’s the way I am, I need to know I’m right, and you always seemed to understand that even though I’m sure we knocked heads again and again because of it.

We now have an Amish store here in Tustin. You’d love it, Dad. Ben and I stopped there this morning on our way home from helping rake leaves at church. We bought a dozen donuts and thought of you as we ate some of them, because you would love their soft, doughy sweetness. You would love everything about this little store: the warm glowing gas lights suspended from the ceiling, the bulk foods and soup mixes, the bakery and shelves of candy, the rustic furniture and handmade items. It’s like all your favorite stores in Shipshewana under one roof. Most of all you’d love the people who own it. And just like you did with Mr. Hochstetler, the buggy maker in Indiana, you would get to know them and they would become your friends and you would greet them by name each time you’d come to visit us. 

Ben misses you. Some nights he still cries when he’s had a hard day and gets to thinking about Grandpa, wishing he could tell you all about it and hear you say, “Cheer up, things could be worse.” I think you’d be proud to see the young man he’s grown into. He loves Jesus, he loves people, and he has a compassionate heart. I’m eager to see where the Lord leads him in life. I hope God still lets you have little glimpses of our happiest moments here on earth, because I know you’d get as much joy out of seeing him nearly all grown up as you always got from spending time with him as a little boy. I’m so thankful he holds your memory close.

Today I just want you to know how much we all miss you and love you, Dad. Till we meet at Jesus’ feet…

Eating a Plum

Whenever she was sad to see something come to an end, my mom would say, "It's like eating a plum." Meaning the experience was so delicious, but it's gone in only one or two bites. The sweetness lingers after the fruit is gone, but the memory of the sweetness is what we hold onto.

It's hard to believe that a whole week has flown by since the Breathe Christian Writer's Conference at Cornerstone University. I'm back in my daily routine of teaching, reading, meal prep, laundry...but with a renewed energy to make time each day for writing. Last weekend blessed me in a big way--the speakers, the workshops, but mostly the people. I've never met such an encouraging bunch of wordies! This was my first time attending Breathe, and I'm already looking forward to next year's conference. I plan to make this a regular retreat, something I can look forward to all year.

I had the great privilege and honor of helping to open the conference by reading my poem "The Work of Our Hands." Thanks so much to all of you who gave me encouraging feedback on that. The workshops I attended were top-notch...and there were so many to choose from! I was particularly encouraged by Matt Landrum's excellent poetry workshops and how he demonstrated the importance of friendships for the writing life. Cynthia Beach's workshop "Creating Believable Emotion in Fiction and Nonfiction" applies as much to poetry as it does to prose. And Mike Wittmer's talk on Saturday morning was deeply meaningful as he pointed out that hope is one of the most important words for us as Christians and as writers. We need hope to survive. We need hope for the process of writing. And since we have to answer to God for every word we write, let's be sure to give our readers hope.

One of my goals for the weekend was to make connections with other writers, and I did. I even found someone willing to meet me halfway between Cadillac and Grand Rapids to have a mini writer's group. We hope to start in early November, and the thought of having that mutual encouragement and accountability keeps me writing.

Thanks, God, for working it out for me to attend Breathe so that I could catch my breath. Help me in turn to breathe out your words of hope and light in this dark world.