The Entire Adventure Part 24
Not-so-fond memories of Trident?
Except for the incredible snickerdoodle cookies and sweet hot tea I positively savored every day,
the food didn't work for me. I think I existed solely on those cookies and tea.
And then, six weeks after I arrived on Fish Island, the strike ended. We slaves were back to work.
The $$$ started to flow. But not fast enough for the front office. So. After working five and a half
weeks of 8 hour days 5 days a week, they put us on 18 hour days 7 days a week. Not 14 hours. 18.
That's with a capital 8.
If you do the math, you'll quickly discover 24 hours in a day minus 18 hours of work left only 6
hours for everything else. Hmm. Not my idea of an ideal adventure.
I made it through the first "capital 8 day." (Can't really call it a day because it was a day and half a
night.) Anyway. I finished, went to the chow hall (sorry, dining hall—old habits die hard), ate a
quick meal of something I did not recognize as food (something Filipino, I think), and promptly hit
the rack. Only to wake up from a dead sleep thirty minutes later vomiting out both ends. If you
know what I mean. I mean, I eliminated the turkey I had eaten two Thanksgivings ago. That kind of
eliminating. For four of the four hours I had before my next shift started, I was in the bathroom
"eliminating." I mean . . . wow.
Never so sick in all my life.
I struggled back to bed, somehow managed to climb in my upper bunk, pulled the blankets over my
head, and died.
An hour later I heard a knock on my door. I was "politely requested" to come to work.
Immediately. It seemed slaves did not get a "sick day."
Well, long story short, I was on the first plane heading out of Sand Point with "No Rehire" stamped
on my Trident paperwork. Hey. Fine by me.
I flew into Anchorage, but was too sick to even look out the window of the plane as we landed. I
flew into Philadelphia and spent the night in the airport. Took the bus to my friend's house. After
two days camped out in her spare bedroom, I was finally ready to rejoin the human race. During
that time I got to listen to Margaret Becker's newest CD Falling Forward. That was cool. Then,
about a week later, I went back to work at Uni-Mart. Except for the fact they "promoted" me to
assistant manager, it was as if I had never left.
But I had. And I had returned. That was not in my plan.
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 25
So. Yeah. That'll be eight dollars and sixty-nine cents, please. Out of ten. A dollar thirty-one is
your change. Thank you. And have a nice day.
Plans. Who needed 'em.
Well, it seemed I did. Because without my teaching/coaching plan, what did I have? Slushies and
cigarettes? Old coffee and shriveled hot dogs? Hey, now, wait a minute. We may have sold a few
shriveled hot dogs at Uni-Mart, but we never sold . . . Slushies. (Yes, we did sell a few cups of
old coffee.)
I'll never in a million years forget that feeling in my gut as my plane crossed the sky that day over
America's Heartland at 39,000 feet—and I'm not talking about being sick. My plan was dead. My
lifelong dream had withered into a wisp and blown away.
Without $$$$$$$$$ I would never become a teacher. I could still coach if I wanted to, but, to be
honest, in that plane that day I realized I didn't want to coach anymore. I was over it. Over all of
it. I wouldn't be a Biology teacher or a coach at Siuslaw High School or any other high school for
that matter. I was on my way back to Pennsylvania where I would become a plain person working
a plain job in a plain house driving a plain car. In plain old Pennsylvania.
I didn't shed tears on the plane that day, but I came awfully close.
But yet . . . I knew. Deep down, I knew my Lord had a plan.
I've since learned that our Lord does not have one plan for His children, He has a bazillion. If the
wayward child rejects plan number 4,192 (or runs out of gas to see it through), then put plan 4,193
into effect. No prob. Me? I was on Plan Number 2. Without a clue where it would lead. Or
where I was headed.
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 26
Let's get back to our story. Whaddaya say.
So. Where were we. Ahh, yes. Dream choked and puked. Plans at Fish Plant eliminated. Back in
Pennsylvania, back to Uni-Mart. Not a clue. That about sums it up.
Anyway, a few months after my return to Pennsylvania, my brother looks at me and says, "Let's go
back to Oregon." I say to him, "Let me think about it yes."
We packed up a U-haul, brought along our adorable little puppy named Mario, and headed west.
My brother had the foresight to secure work for himself once we arrived in Salem, Oregon. Me? I
have never possessed an ounce of foresight. I was along for the ride without a clue what I was
going to do once we got there. Except go to the beach, I had no plans. I needed to get a job.
Needed a place to live other than in my brother's living room sleeping on an air mattress.
I slept on that air mattress for a couple of weeks. And still hadn't found a job. Hey, I wasn't
looking for a job with grandeur. I had been a convenience store clerk, an apartment manager, a
hoagie maker, a weather observer, a trail crew supervisor, an owl caller, a fish de-wormer . . . so I
knew how to be a slave to the workforce. Anything would do. I remember the day I applied for a
job as a video store clerk. Right after that, I crossed the street to go to the West Salem library to
check out the help-wanted ads. I had been checking them for weeks and almost nixed that day's
trip. But I didn't. For my brother's sanity's sake, I needed to find a job.
What I found was a miracle. God gave me a gift. One I can't wait to share with you. Tomorrow.
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 27
I don't know where I found it or who wrote it. But I tucked it inside my wallet where I saw it and
re-read it almost every day for years. Many years. Since my Air Force days, at least.
Lord, here's my life. Whatever You want me to do, I'll do it. If it's a small job, give me the grace
to do it and be satisfied. If it's a big job, give me the ability to do it and be humble.
That day in June 1996, sitting in the library with the help-wanted ads spread before me, my prayer
became, Lord, here's my predicament. I need a job. Whatever You want me to do, I'll do it. A big
job would be cool, but right now I'll take anything.
99.9% of the ads I saw that day were the same dumb ads I'd seen for weeks. Home-based
business. Make millions in your sleep. Telemarketer. We'll tell you what you're marketing after
we hire you. Drive truck. All you need is a CDL and a truck. Be a care giver. Only those highly
experienced with BM need apply.
But then this one little ad caught my eye.
Worker needed at beachfront motel, Lincoln City. Housing provided.
AOL has their keywords. This tiny ad had mine. I'm not kidding, I started to throw the paper into
the air and run out of the library before I even wrote down the phone number. I put the paper neatly
on its rack, then rushed back to my brother's to make the call. Borrowed his Explorer and made the
trip to Lincoln City that same day. Drove through the entire town (it's about seven miles long --
following Highway 101 and blocked to the west by the biggest body of water on earth), drove into
the neighborhood where this beachfront motel was located, started to gasp as my heart palpated
(Bob's Beach Books is right across the street), turned down the hill, saw the beach, saw the motel .
. . and knew. That little ad had been placed in the Salem Statesman Journal so one person could see
it and respond.
That'd be me, folks!! : )
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 28
Amazed. Overwhelmed. And I didn't even know what the job entailed. Or what the housing
looked like. I would do the job whatever it was, and live in the house no matter where it was (I
had a feeling it was in the vicinity). I mean . . . wow.
I met the motel owner. Nice man. Gary. He showed me around the motel and told me about the
job. Cleaning. I'd be a housekeeping slave. No prob. I told him yes. He said, "Well, do you want
to see the apartment?" I said, "That's not necessary. But yes, I'll go see it for the fun of it."
We walked across the street to a cool little complex. (Did you hear me? Across the street.) We
walked up the stairs to #5. He let me in and I peeked. Then said, "Yep, this'll work." I mean . . .
perfect. Even though it was tiny, for little old me, it was absitively perfect. No better word. I
mean, in my U of O days, I lived in a quad the size of this little place's first room. This place . . .
perfect.
If you don't mind, let me spell this out for you. The place was furnished. Had a recliner by the
window offering an ocean view. Kitchen, cupboards, fridge, stove. Double-sized bed, shower,
carpeted, clean, bright, second floor, porch . . . see what I mean? Perfect.
James 1:17 Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and comes down from the Father
of lights.
And this was a good and perfect gift.
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 29
I moved into that apartment that very next day. Started work the day after that. A few days later,
this is what I wrote in my journal.
Just how does the Lord provide?
I needed a place to live and a job. Well, let's clarify that. I needed a place to live besides the
floor in my brother's apartment. And I only had $500 in the bank. I needed furniture, especially
a bed. Even though I didn't need to live on the coast, I wanted to. And I needed a job.
Considering my wardrobe, I needed a job that allowed jeans and T-shirts, sweats and sneakers.
Doesn't leave many options.
At least that's what I thought. The Lord provided. Like He always has. He knew just what I
needed, and He even threw in a few "wants" to sweeten the deal.
Need a place to live? How about a one bedroom second floor apartment, freshly painted and
ready to go. Need a bed? Okay. Let's furnish the apartment. Full-size bed, couch, table, chair,
and nightstand. Need a job? Okay. How about cleaning a motel. Five hours a day, six days a
week, six bucks an hour. Good, hard, honest work, nothing fancy. We'll even include tips. Don't
have a car? That's okay. Just walk to work. Just walk to wherever you need to go, no big deal.
There's a bank close by, a cafe, a grocery store, the local high school, a used bookstore, a music
store, lots of little shops, and a Dairy Queen. What more could you need?
Oh, that's right. There was this little thing about wanting to live on the coast. Okay!! Let's put
your apartment, your job, and your neighborhood in Lincoln City, Oregon, closest coastal city to
Salem— and big brother Chris—and one of the larger and prettier spots on the coast. Better
yet, let's put everything in the better part of old town Lincoln City, put your apartment three
hundred feet from the beach, and your job, well, on the beach. I don't think the motel could
possibly be any closer.
Anything else? Oh, yes, that thing about money. Okay, let's see. How about $200 a month for
rent, utilities and cable included, of course, and we'll take your rent directly out of your check
so you won't have to pay a cent up front. We'll provide you with dishes if you need them,
cleaning supplies, a vacuum, and even a TV in a beachfront room if you need some boring
excitement on a quiet night.
And you do have a pretty pitiful wardrobe. Oh well, no problem. Just wear jeans and sweats, T-
shirts and sneakers to work. We'll even provide you with a free T-shirt and sweatshirt that's
printed with the motel's logo.
And what else could the Lord provide? Doesn't He prove His love—even down to the last little
detail?
The people here are the best. Believers! My brothers and sisters in You, Lord Jesus. Thank You.
Hey! Did you hear that? A seagull! The pounding surf!
Unbelievable.
My journal entry in June 1996. Oh, but the best was still yet to come.
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 30
You know? Isn't He the God Who Provides? Yahweh-Jireh, our Provider. He knows what we
need. He knows before we even ask. And this has been one of the most amazing things I've
realized as I've gone back a bit, remembering and finally seeing how His hand has been on me. The
Bible tells us to ask. Then we will receive. I know that's true, and I do ask. And receive. But
sometimes I don't ask. Truth is, more often than not, I don't ask. And He still provides. He
provides in ways I cannot even begin to imagine. It's almost like I knew better than to ask. Nothing
I could think of to ask for could compare to what He planned to give me. It's like I would ask, and
He would say, "Nope. Think higher." And how cool is that?
One of the things I needed desperately in June 1996 was to "air out." My life had kind of spiraled
into nothingness up to then, and I needed to step away for a while to catch my breath. To be able to
air out with clean, salty, surf-swept air was such a gift. I know the first two weeks I spent in
Lincoln City, except for working, eating, and sleeping, I walked the beach. Aired out. And praised
my God.
But here's another thing. I'm not a very good praiser. When I pray, I don't ask. When I praise, I
don't . . . do much. But when I pray and when I praise, my heart is simply open wide to Him. I
have so much to learn about Him, about loving Him completely and praising Him in pure worship
in Spirit and in Truth. So much to learn. But I'm learning.
Those two weeks in June 1996, I learned. I breathed. And I lived.
To breathe is to live. To breathe Him in . . . is to fill our lives with eternity.
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 31
Two weeks. Airing out. Walking the beach. Watching a little TV. Listening to a little Margaret
Becker. Okay, a lot of Margaret Becker. And . . . reading. Or, should I say, wanting to read. After
a lifetime of not really caring about books, I suddenly wanted to fill my quiet beachside moments
after work with . . . books. And not just any books, but novels. Exciting mysteries or gut-
wrenching dramas. I walked up the street to Bob's Beach Books (which just so happens to be one
of the biggest and best used-book stores in the world). I browsed the shelves. Came away with a
Nevada Barr mystery called Track of the Cat. And a bunch of other paperbacks that I started to
read, then quickly put down and sold back to Bob.
I soon realized . . . I was a very picky reader. And that I had absolutely no patience to continue
reading when my interest in the story waned. The story needed to be character driven. And the
driven character needed to be a woman who could take care of herself.
I tried the ABC mysteries about Kinsey Milhone, PI. But, after reading A, then B, then trying to
read C, I realized I didn't care much for first-person points of view. I read a few military-suspense-
type novels which I enjoyed, but left me feeling dirty from the experience. The language echoed
across my brain when I slept. The images lingered in my mind's eye. Not very pleasant images or
language.
So. Hmm. What to do? Wasn't there this . . . thing . . . called Christian Fiction? I asked Bob about
it. He said to check out the Religious section of his store. And there, mixed in with all the old
Bibles and books about all the religions of the world, were a handful of novels written by such
authors as Gilbert Morris, Jeanette Oke, and Frank Perretti. And a bunch of others too. By
publishers such as Bethany House, Baker Books, and Zondervan. So I plunked down my hard-
earned money and bought a bunch (almost bought Bob out). Took them home and gave them a read
through. And came away . . . bummed.
It wasn't that I wasn't impressed by the quality of the writing, it's just that the writing did not work
for me. It's okay to say that about a novel. Even if it's a Christian novel written by a Christian
brother or sister. Not every story suits every taste. And my taste was left unsuited by every single
one. I hauled them all back up to Bob and sold them back. No prob.
Yes, prob. Without anything to read, how would I satisfy this sudden insatiable desire to read?
And where did this desire come from anyway? What was up with that?
I was about to have my questions answered. I was about to be . . . schooled.
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 32
All of a sudden, I wanted to read. I had the time to read. And I enjoyed it. Only problem was . . .
what to read? I walked up to the library and checked out the stacks. Tried a few more Christian
novels. Mostly historicals. And romances. Added those to my list. I didn't really care for
historicals. And I certainly didn't care for romances.
My list was adding up. So, what did I like? Stories about women I could relate to. Which was a
joke. How many women out there were like me? I was single (still am), boring (still am), slightly
stubborn and independent (no comment), and still fairly active (which definitely went by the
wayside). I needed suspense. Action. Adventure. Characters who were real. Real stories about
fake real people. People I cared about. People I fell in love with. Stories that moved me to tears,
or to laughter, or to praise.
I'm not sure when the revelation first hit me. I'm sure I was in my little place by the beach after
work one night, probably staring at the stack of books that just didn't "work" for me, wondering if
my poor feet could take another hike back up to Bob's or to the library. Remember, I didn't have a
car. Each trip to the library meant a mile trip up the beach lugging my full backpack. Each trip to
the library for more books demanded another trip in two weeks.
I needed to find a way to fill my quiet moments of blessed solitude. I needed to read. I needed to
find an author I enjoyed reading. I needed books about characters I cared about. Stories that would
hold my attention, as narrow as my attention span was. Stories that would stay with me. I really
needed stories that would leave me more in love with my God.
I didn't need to read. I needed to write.
I don't know when that realization hit me, but it did. Big time. Right upside the head. And, well,
yes, my head—and my life—hasn't been the same since.
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 33
I needed to write.
Woo . . . it still gives me shivers. : )
Here's what I thought at the time. Middle of July, 1996. First, I need to read. Second, no novel out
there will satisfy my unbelievably picky, pathetically narrow, absurdly demanding taste. Third, if I
want to read a novel that will satisfy my taste, I need to write it. Fourth, if I don't write it, I'll
burst. Fifth, what bad thing would happen if I gave it a try? I mean, would the sky fall? Would the
ocean dry up and blow away? Would life as the world knew it grind to a halt just because this
bored aired-out little Christian girl living by the beach wanted to write a novel?
Heavy thoughts. Hah! This was my main thought: It'll be fun!!!!
Oh, man, I had no idea.
But, back to Bob's I went. Back to the library. I carried home every How-To Write a Novel book
they had. Cleaned them out. Started to read them. And discovered a very interesting little fact. An
impossible fact. An incredible fact. A fact that scared me to death—that made me feel a bit
arrogant even as it almost blew me away.
Everything I was reading in the How-To books . . . I already knew. I couldn't read them because
they were sooooooo boring. They sat on the floor of my apartment as I sat at my desk that first night
and picked up that first blue Bic pen.
Hey. What did I know?? All I knew . . . was that I needed to read. To read, I needed to write.
And to write . . . I needed a pen in my hand, not a How-To book.
I was merrily on my way.
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 34
I was going to write a novel about a woman who played basketball at a small college somewhere in
the western U.S. It was going to be called Jessie At Western. Women like me would love it. It
would be a story about a young Christian woman coming of age at a secular college struggling with
college issues while maintaining her witness to her teammates and friends and growing up in the
process. That's what most "coming of age" novels did. Showed how their characters "grew up." It
would be perfect.
There would be four books in the series: one for each year Jessie spent at Western. The idea
started to take shape. Scenes started piling up. I had pictures of each of my characters to help me
describe them. Many characters. At least thirty. All with super-cool names and pictures and
detailed backstories. I lined out the entire team. The coaching staff. The other colleges in the
league. The team's schedule. Planned on having each freshman player arrive in her own chapter.
There would be five freshmen on the 1996 women's basketball team at Western University. Oh,
man. I was on a roll. And having the most incredible time of my life.
Until another revelation hit me. I had written about ten scenes so far. Had almost all the prep work
done. But the feeling wasn't right. I was trying to write a story about basketball in the middle of
summer. And this one thing I knew. I certainly could not fake my way through my first novel. I
couldn't fake the emotions of watching a basketball game unfold before my eyes. Couldn't fake the
friendships and the feeling of team that needed to saturate the story. I could feel those emotions by
watching any team play. I could certainly recapture the emotions I felt by playing, and by being a
part of a team. But only if I watched a few games. Heard the squeak of the sneakers against the
smooth, clean floor. Heard the game chatter. "Ballballball! Outlet! Nice pass! Take her! I've got
15! Defense!"
I couldn't fake the lifeblood of my first novel.
I had to put Jessie At Western away for four months. Or else . . . it wouldn't be . . . real. And it had
to be real.
Heartsick, I stuffed Jessie and everything she couldn't wait to share with me into a thick folder and
then into my file. Next to the Other Ideas folder. Which I quickly pulled out and perused.
See, I was going to read about Jessie someday. But I had to wait to write her story. No prob. I
sifted through my other ideas and pulled out one I didn't have to wait to read. Or write.
Oh, yeah. This idea . . . had possibilities.
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 35
I knew the basic rule of writing fiction: Write about what you know. I knew basketball. I knew
college. (Hah! Did I know college or what??) I knew about the jobs I had worked. About the
places I had lived. I knew about the military. I knew about calling spotted owls. I knew about
running a high school trail crew through the mountains.
Yes, I did. But how could that incredible experience translate into a novel? Simple. Rule number
two of writing fiction. Conflict. Somehow, I needed to drum up a little conflict for my imaginary
crew of trail clearers. Hmm. Yes. With the setting still vivid in my mind, all the great memories
of the kids, the trails, and the terrific fun we had, all I needed was a little conflict and we were on
our way.
Something had to happen to my little crew. Something bad.
Oooo . . . what fun we novelists have.
What was the worst thing that could possibly happen to my little crew out in the mountains far away
from civilization and rescue and help? Attack. Attack by a cougar or a lion or a bear? Nah.
Attack by a man. A man with a gun. A crazy man with a big gun.
Wow. That was conflict. The absolute worst thing I ever could have imagined happening to me
and my crew as we cleared trails.
Whoa. But, yes. I was about to make it happen to one poor trail crew supervisor. And her name
was Stacie Russell. My good friend!! My imaginary good friend, of course, but yes! My good
friend!! How could I do it? How could I put her through it?
Easy. And her story would be called Trapped on Deception.
Finally. A story I wanted to read. Now all I had to do was write it. And lookee-lookee . . . pen in
hand, I was on my way. And becoming a novelist.
Wow.
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 36
But wait. Stop the presses. I had a little bit of a clue about writing a novel. (Where it came from, I
still have no idea.) (Yes, I do.) : ) (More about that later.) I knew that if the major scene of the
major conflict of my wee story didn't work, then the entire story wouldn't work. I had to write that
most intense scene first, see if it worked, then see if the story had potential to not only be a good
story for me to read . . . but maybe? . . . for others to . . . read??
Hmm. Yes. We novelists may talk to imaginary people, but we aren't exactly dumb. If we're gonna
take the time to write a story (especially hand write it, like I was about to do), we want people to
read it. Other people. Real people. Masses of real people. (Especially if they were willing to
plunk down a few bucks for the privilege.)
But, yes, I was not (and the rest of my novelist brothers and sisters in Christ are not) in it for the
money. Truthfully, I didn't think about $$$ at all. I knew if I could pull off a novel that was
interesting to read and glorified my Lord, then He would guide me to see where the next step would
be. He would make anything happen that He wanted to see happen. I would finally have a book to
read about characters I cared about, and maybe, in turn, He would have something He could use for
His honor and glory, whatever that may have meant. In other words, I knew the potential of what I
was undertaking. But I was completely wrapped up in the glorious fun of writing that I didn't care
about the potential. All I wanted was to write. To feed the insatiable appetite I suddenly had
coursing through my veins.
And . . . to write something that would glorify my God.
This was my goal. My hope. And my prayer. I did not want to write a story that would not cause
me to pine and long for my God. I needed for this entire little enterprise to be His from the start.
And to be for Him all the way through.
This is the truth. And I only say this because I think it matters. Because I think it made all the
difference.
Only for You, my Lord and my God. For You alone, I give . . . all. No other way. No other
reason. No other hope. But in You.
Amen.
But don't go away, that's not The End!
To be continued . . .
Not-so-fond memories of Trident?
Except for the incredible snickerdoodle cookies and sweet hot tea I positively savored every day,
the food didn't work for me. I think I existed solely on those cookies and tea.
And then, six weeks after I arrived on Fish Island, the strike ended. We slaves were back to work.
The $$$ started to flow. But not fast enough for the front office. So. After working five and a half
weeks of 8 hour days 5 days a week, they put us on 18 hour days 7 days a week. Not 14 hours. 18.
That's with a capital 8.
If you do the math, you'll quickly discover 24 hours in a day minus 18 hours of work left only 6
hours for everything else. Hmm. Not my idea of an ideal adventure.
I made it through the first "capital 8 day." (Can't really call it a day because it was a day and half a
night.) Anyway. I finished, went to the chow hall (sorry, dining hall—old habits die hard), ate a
quick meal of something I did not recognize as food (something Filipino, I think), and promptly hit
the rack. Only to wake up from a dead sleep thirty minutes later vomiting out both ends. If you
know what I mean. I mean, I eliminated the turkey I had eaten two Thanksgivings ago. That kind of
eliminating. For four of the four hours I had before my next shift started, I was in the bathroom
"eliminating." I mean . . . wow.
Never so sick in all my life.
I struggled back to bed, somehow managed to climb in my upper bunk, pulled the blankets over my
head, and died.
An hour later I heard a knock on my door. I was "politely requested" to come to work.
Immediately. It seemed slaves did not get a "sick day."
Well, long story short, I was on the first plane heading out of Sand Point with "No Rehire" stamped
on my Trident paperwork. Hey. Fine by me.
I flew into Anchorage, but was too sick to even look out the window of the plane as we landed. I
flew into Philadelphia and spent the night in the airport. Took the bus to my friend's house. After
two days camped out in her spare bedroom, I was finally ready to rejoin the human race. During
that time I got to listen to Margaret Becker's newest CD Falling Forward. That was cool. Then,
about a week later, I went back to work at Uni-Mart. Except for the fact they "promoted" me to
assistant manager, it was as if I had never left.
But I had. And I had returned. That was not in my plan.
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 25
So. Yeah. That'll be eight dollars and sixty-nine cents, please. Out of ten. A dollar thirty-one is
your change. Thank you. And have a nice day.
Plans. Who needed 'em.
Well, it seemed I did. Because without my teaching/coaching plan, what did I have? Slushies and
cigarettes? Old coffee and shriveled hot dogs? Hey, now, wait a minute. We may have sold a few
shriveled hot dogs at Uni-Mart, but we never sold . . . Slushies. (Yes, we did sell a few cups of
old coffee.)
I'll never in a million years forget that feeling in my gut as my plane crossed the sky that day over
America's Heartland at 39,000 feet—and I'm not talking about being sick. My plan was dead. My
lifelong dream had withered into a wisp and blown away.
Without $$$$$$$$$ I would never become a teacher. I could still coach if I wanted to, but, to be
honest, in that plane that day I realized I didn't want to coach anymore. I was over it. Over all of
it. I wouldn't be a Biology teacher or a coach at Siuslaw High School or any other high school for
that matter. I was on my way back to Pennsylvania where I would become a plain person working
a plain job in a plain house driving a plain car. In plain old Pennsylvania.
I didn't shed tears on the plane that day, but I came awfully close.
But yet . . . I knew. Deep down, I knew my Lord had a plan.
I've since learned that our Lord does not have one plan for His children, He has a bazillion. If the
wayward child rejects plan number 4,192 (or runs out of gas to see it through), then put plan 4,193
into effect. No prob. Me? I was on Plan Number 2. Without a clue where it would lead. Or
where I was headed.
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 26
Let's get back to our story. Whaddaya say.
So. Where were we. Ahh, yes. Dream choked and puked. Plans at Fish Plant eliminated. Back in
Pennsylvania, back to Uni-Mart. Not a clue. That about sums it up.
Anyway, a few months after my return to Pennsylvania, my brother looks at me and says, "Let's go
back to Oregon." I say to him, "Let me think about it yes."
We packed up a U-haul, brought along our adorable little puppy named Mario, and headed west.
My brother had the foresight to secure work for himself once we arrived in Salem, Oregon. Me? I
have never possessed an ounce of foresight. I was along for the ride without a clue what I was
going to do once we got there. Except go to the beach, I had no plans. I needed to get a job.
Needed a place to live other than in my brother's living room sleeping on an air mattress.
I slept on that air mattress for a couple of weeks. And still hadn't found a job. Hey, I wasn't
looking for a job with grandeur. I had been a convenience store clerk, an apartment manager, a
hoagie maker, a weather observer, a trail crew supervisor, an owl caller, a fish de-wormer . . . so I
knew how to be a slave to the workforce. Anything would do. I remember the day I applied for a
job as a video store clerk. Right after that, I crossed the street to go to the West Salem library to
check out the help-wanted ads. I had been checking them for weeks and almost nixed that day's
trip. But I didn't. For my brother's sanity's sake, I needed to find a job.
What I found was a miracle. God gave me a gift. One I can't wait to share with you. Tomorrow.
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 27
I don't know where I found it or who wrote it. But I tucked it inside my wallet where I saw it and
re-read it almost every day for years. Many years. Since my Air Force days, at least.
Lord, here's my life. Whatever You want me to do, I'll do it. If it's a small job, give me the grace
to do it and be satisfied. If it's a big job, give me the ability to do it and be humble.
That day in June 1996, sitting in the library with the help-wanted ads spread before me, my prayer
became, Lord, here's my predicament. I need a job. Whatever You want me to do, I'll do it. A big
job would be cool, but right now I'll take anything.
99.9% of the ads I saw that day were the same dumb ads I'd seen for weeks. Home-based
business. Make millions in your sleep. Telemarketer. We'll tell you what you're marketing after
we hire you. Drive truck. All you need is a CDL and a truck. Be a care giver. Only those highly
experienced with BM need apply.
But then this one little ad caught my eye.
Worker needed at beachfront motel, Lincoln City. Housing provided.
AOL has their keywords. This tiny ad had mine. I'm not kidding, I started to throw the paper into
the air and run out of the library before I even wrote down the phone number. I put the paper neatly
on its rack, then rushed back to my brother's to make the call. Borrowed his Explorer and made the
trip to Lincoln City that same day. Drove through the entire town (it's about seven miles long --
following Highway 101 and blocked to the west by the biggest body of water on earth), drove into
the neighborhood where this beachfront motel was located, started to gasp as my heart palpated
(Bob's Beach Books is right across the street), turned down the hill, saw the beach, saw the motel .
. . and knew. That little ad had been placed in the Salem Statesman Journal so one person could see
it and respond.
That'd be me, folks!! : )
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 28
Amazed. Overwhelmed. And I didn't even know what the job entailed. Or what the housing
looked like. I would do the job whatever it was, and live in the house no matter where it was (I
had a feeling it was in the vicinity). I mean . . . wow.
I met the motel owner. Nice man. Gary. He showed me around the motel and told me about the
job. Cleaning. I'd be a housekeeping slave. No prob. I told him yes. He said, "Well, do you want
to see the apartment?" I said, "That's not necessary. But yes, I'll go see it for the fun of it."
We walked across the street to a cool little complex. (Did you hear me? Across the street.) We
walked up the stairs to #5. He let me in and I peeked. Then said, "Yep, this'll work." I mean . . .
perfect. Even though it was tiny, for little old me, it was absitively perfect. No better word. I
mean, in my U of O days, I lived in a quad the size of this little place's first room. This place . . .
perfect.
If you don't mind, let me spell this out for you. The place was furnished. Had a recliner by the
window offering an ocean view. Kitchen, cupboards, fridge, stove. Double-sized bed, shower,
carpeted, clean, bright, second floor, porch . . . see what I mean? Perfect.
James 1:17 Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and comes down from the Father
of lights.
And this was a good and perfect gift.
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 29
I moved into that apartment that very next day. Started work the day after that. A few days later,
this is what I wrote in my journal.
Just how does the Lord provide?
I needed a place to live and a job. Well, let's clarify that. I needed a place to live besides the
floor in my brother's apartment. And I only had $500 in the bank. I needed furniture, especially
a bed. Even though I didn't need to live on the coast, I wanted to. And I needed a job.
Considering my wardrobe, I needed a job that allowed jeans and T-shirts, sweats and sneakers.
Doesn't leave many options.
At least that's what I thought. The Lord provided. Like He always has. He knew just what I
needed, and He even threw in a few "wants" to sweeten the deal.
Need a place to live? How about a one bedroom second floor apartment, freshly painted and
ready to go. Need a bed? Okay. Let's furnish the apartment. Full-size bed, couch, table, chair,
and nightstand. Need a job? Okay. How about cleaning a motel. Five hours a day, six days a
week, six bucks an hour. Good, hard, honest work, nothing fancy. We'll even include tips. Don't
have a car? That's okay. Just walk to work. Just walk to wherever you need to go, no big deal.
There's a bank close by, a cafe, a grocery store, the local high school, a used bookstore, a music
store, lots of little shops, and a Dairy Queen. What more could you need?
Oh, that's right. There was this little thing about wanting to live on the coast. Okay!! Let's put
your apartment, your job, and your neighborhood in Lincoln City, Oregon, closest coastal city to
Salem— and big brother Chris—and one of the larger and prettier spots on the coast. Better
yet, let's put everything in the better part of old town Lincoln City, put your apartment three
hundred feet from the beach, and your job, well, on the beach. I don't think the motel could
possibly be any closer.
Anything else? Oh, yes, that thing about money. Okay, let's see. How about $200 a month for
rent, utilities and cable included, of course, and we'll take your rent directly out of your check
so you won't have to pay a cent up front. We'll provide you with dishes if you need them,
cleaning supplies, a vacuum, and even a TV in a beachfront room if you need some boring
excitement on a quiet night.
And you do have a pretty pitiful wardrobe. Oh well, no problem. Just wear jeans and sweats, T-
shirts and sneakers to work. We'll even provide you with a free T-shirt and sweatshirt that's
printed with the motel's logo.
And what else could the Lord provide? Doesn't He prove His love—even down to the last little
detail?
The people here are the best. Believers! My brothers and sisters in You, Lord Jesus. Thank You.
Hey! Did you hear that? A seagull! The pounding surf!
Unbelievable.
My journal entry in June 1996. Oh, but the best was still yet to come.
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 30
You know? Isn't He the God Who Provides? Yahweh-Jireh, our Provider. He knows what we
need. He knows before we even ask. And this has been one of the most amazing things I've
realized as I've gone back a bit, remembering and finally seeing how His hand has been on me. The
Bible tells us to ask. Then we will receive. I know that's true, and I do ask. And receive. But
sometimes I don't ask. Truth is, more often than not, I don't ask. And He still provides. He
provides in ways I cannot even begin to imagine. It's almost like I knew better than to ask. Nothing
I could think of to ask for could compare to what He planned to give me. It's like I would ask, and
He would say, "Nope. Think higher." And how cool is that?
One of the things I needed desperately in June 1996 was to "air out." My life had kind of spiraled
into nothingness up to then, and I needed to step away for a while to catch my breath. To be able to
air out with clean, salty, surf-swept air was such a gift. I know the first two weeks I spent in
Lincoln City, except for working, eating, and sleeping, I walked the beach. Aired out. And praised
my God.
But here's another thing. I'm not a very good praiser. When I pray, I don't ask. When I praise, I
don't . . . do much. But when I pray and when I praise, my heart is simply open wide to Him. I
have so much to learn about Him, about loving Him completely and praising Him in pure worship
in Spirit and in Truth. So much to learn. But I'm learning.
Those two weeks in June 1996, I learned. I breathed. And I lived.
To breathe is to live. To breathe Him in . . . is to fill our lives with eternity.
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 31
Two weeks. Airing out. Walking the beach. Watching a little TV. Listening to a little Margaret
Becker. Okay, a lot of Margaret Becker. And . . . reading. Or, should I say, wanting to read. After
a lifetime of not really caring about books, I suddenly wanted to fill my quiet beachside moments
after work with . . . books. And not just any books, but novels. Exciting mysteries or gut-
wrenching dramas. I walked up the street to Bob's Beach Books (which just so happens to be one
of the biggest and best used-book stores in the world). I browsed the shelves. Came away with a
Nevada Barr mystery called Track of the Cat. And a bunch of other paperbacks that I started to
read, then quickly put down and sold back to Bob.
I soon realized . . . I was a very picky reader. And that I had absolutely no patience to continue
reading when my interest in the story waned. The story needed to be character driven. And the
driven character needed to be a woman who could take care of herself.
I tried the ABC mysteries about Kinsey Milhone, PI. But, after reading A, then B, then trying to
read C, I realized I didn't care much for first-person points of view. I read a few military-suspense-
type novels which I enjoyed, but left me feeling dirty from the experience. The language echoed
across my brain when I slept. The images lingered in my mind's eye. Not very pleasant images or
language.
So. Hmm. What to do? Wasn't there this . . . thing . . . called Christian Fiction? I asked Bob about
it. He said to check out the Religious section of his store. And there, mixed in with all the old
Bibles and books about all the religions of the world, were a handful of novels written by such
authors as Gilbert Morris, Jeanette Oke, and Frank Perretti. And a bunch of others too. By
publishers such as Bethany House, Baker Books, and Zondervan. So I plunked down my hard-
earned money and bought a bunch (almost bought Bob out). Took them home and gave them a read
through. And came away . . . bummed.
It wasn't that I wasn't impressed by the quality of the writing, it's just that the writing did not work
for me. It's okay to say that about a novel. Even if it's a Christian novel written by a Christian
brother or sister. Not every story suits every taste. And my taste was left unsuited by every single
one. I hauled them all back up to Bob and sold them back. No prob.
Yes, prob. Without anything to read, how would I satisfy this sudden insatiable desire to read?
And where did this desire come from anyway? What was up with that?
I was about to have my questions answered. I was about to be . . . schooled.
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 32
All of a sudden, I wanted to read. I had the time to read. And I enjoyed it. Only problem was . . .
what to read? I walked up to the library and checked out the stacks. Tried a few more Christian
novels. Mostly historicals. And romances. Added those to my list. I didn't really care for
historicals. And I certainly didn't care for romances.
My list was adding up. So, what did I like? Stories about women I could relate to. Which was a
joke. How many women out there were like me? I was single (still am), boring (still am), slightly
stubborn and independent (no comment), and still fairly active (which definitely went by the
wayside). I needed suspense. Action. Adventure. Characters who were real. Real stories about
fake real people. People I cared about. People I fell in love with. Stories that moved me to tears,
or to laughter, or to praise.
I'm not sure when the revelation first hit me. I'm sure I was in my little place by the beach after
work one night, probably staring at the stack of books that just didn't "work" for me, wondering if
my poor feet could take another hike back up to Bob's or to the library. Remember, I didn't have a
car. Each trip to the library meant a mile trip up the beach lugging my full backpack. Each trip to
the library for more books demanded another trip in two weeks.
I needed to find a way to fill my quiet moments of blessed solitude. I needed to read. I needed to
find an author I enjoyed reading. I needed books about characters I cared about. Stories that would
hold my attention, as narrow as my attention span was. Stories that would stay with me. I really
needed stories that would leave me more in love with my God.
I didn't need to read. I needed to write.
I don't know when that realization hit me, but it did. Big time. Right upside the head. And, well,
yes, my head—and my life—hasn't been the same since.
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 33
I needed to write.
Woo . . . it still gives me shivers. : )
Here's what I thought at the time. Middle of July, 1996. First, I need to read. Second, no novel out
there will satisfy my unbelievably picky, pathetically narrow, absurdly demanding taste. Third, if I
want to read a novel that will satisfy my taste, I need to write it. Fourth, if I don't write it, I'll
burst. Fifth, what bad thing would happen if I gave it a try? I mean, would the sky fall? Would the
ocean dry up and blow away? Would life as the world knew it grind to a halt just because this
bored aired-out little Christian girl living by the beach wanted to write a novel?
Heavy thoughts. Hah! This was my main thought: It'll be fun!!!!
Oh, man, I had no idea.
But, back to Bob's I went. Back to the library. I carried home every How-To Write a Novel book
they had. Cleaned them out. Started to read them. And discovered a very interesting little fact. An
impossible fact. An incredible fact. A fact that scared me to death—that made me feel a bit
arrogant even as it almost blew me away.
Everything I was reading in the How-To books . . . I already knew. I couldn't read them because
they were sooooooo boring. They sat on the floor of my apartment as I sat at my desk that first night
and picked up that first blue Bic pen.
Hey. What did I know?? All I knew . . . was that I needed to read. To read, I needed to write.
And to write . . . I needed a pen in my hand, not a How-To book.
I was merrily on my way.
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 34
I was going to write a novel about a woman who played basketball at a small college somewhere in
the western U.S. It was going to be called Jessie At Western. Women like me would love it. It
would be a story about a young Christian woman coming of age at a secular college struggling with
college issues while maintaining her witness to her teammates and friends and growing up in the
process. That's what most "coming of age" novels did. Showed how their characters "grew up." It
would be perfect.
There would be four books in the series: one for each year Jessie spent at Western. The idea
started to take shape. Scenes started piling up. I had pictures of each of my characters to help me
describe them. Many characters. At least thirty. All with super-cool names and pictures and
detailed backstories. I lined out the entire team. The coaching staff. The other colleges in the
league. The team's schedule. Planned on having each freshman player arrive in her own chapter.
There would be five freshmen on the 1996 women's basketball team at Western University. Oh,
man. I was on a roll. And having the most incredible time of my life.
Until another revelation hit me. I had written about ten scenes so far. Had almost all the prep work
done. But the feeling wasn't right. I was trying to write a story about basketball in the middle of
summer. And this one thing I knew. I certainly could not fake my way through my first novel. I
couldn't fake the emotions of watching a basketball game unfold before my eyes. Couldn't fake the
friendships and the feeling of team that needed to saturate the story. I could feel those emotions by
watching any team play. I could certainly recapture the emotions I felt by playing, and by being a
part of a team. But only if I watched a few games. Heard the squeak of the sneakers against the
smooth, clean floor. Heard the game chatter. "Ballballball! Outlet! Nice pass! Take her! I've got
15! Defense!"
I couldn't fake the lifeblood of my first novel.
I had to put Jessie At Western away for four months. Or else . . . it wouldn't be . . . real. And it had
to be real.
Heartsick, I stuffed Jessie and everything she couldn't wait to share with me into a thick folder and
then into my file. Next to the Other Ideas folder. Which I quickly pulled out and perused.
See, I was going to read about Jessie someday. But I had to wait to write her story. No prob. I
sifted through my other ideas and pulled out one I didn't have to wait to read. Or write.
Oh, yeah. This idea . . . had possibilities.
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 35
I knew the basic rule of writing fiction: Write about what you know. I knew basketball. I knew
college. (Hah! Did I know college or what??) I knew about the jobs I had worked. About the
places I had lived. I knew about the military. I knew about calling spotted owls. I knew about
running a high school trail crew through the mountains.
Yes, I did. But how could that incredible experience translate into a novel? Simple. Rule number
two of writing fiction. Conflict. Somehow, I needed to drum up a little conflict for my imaginary
crew of trail clearers. Hmm. Yes. With the setting still vivid in my mind, all the great memories
of the kids, the trails, and the terrific fun we had, all I needed was a little conflict and we were on
our way.
Something had to happen to my little crew. Something bad.
Oooo . . . what fun we novelists have.
What was the worst thing that could possibly happen to my little crew out in the mountains far away
from civilization and rescue and help? Attack. Attack by a cougar or a lion or a bear? Nah.
Attack by a man. A man with a gun. A crazy man with a big gun.
Wow. That was conflict. The absolute worst thing I ever could have imagined happening to me
and my crew as we cleared trails.
Whoa. But, yes. I was about to make it happen to one poor trail crew supervisor. And her name
was Stacie Russell. My good friend!! My imaginary good friend, of course, but yes! My good
friend!! How could I do it? How could I put her through it?
Easy. And her story would be called Trapped on Deception.
Finally. A story I wanted to read. Now all I had to do was write it. And lookee-lookee . . . pen in
hand, I was on my way. And becoming a novelist.
Wow.
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 36
But wait. Stop the presses. I had a little bit of a clue about writing a novel. (Where it came from, I
still have no idea.) (Yes, I do.) : ) (More about that later.) I knew that if the major scene of the
major conflict of my wee story didn't work, then the entire story wouldn't work. I had to write that
most intense scene first, see if it worked, then see if the story had potential to not only be a good
story for me to read . . . but maybe? . . . for others to . . . read??
Hmm. Yes. We novelists may talk to imaginary people, but we aren't exactly dumb. If we're gonna
take the time to write a story (especially hand write it, like I was about to do), we want people to
read it. Other people. Real people. Masses of real people. (Especially if they were willing to
plunk down a few bucks for the privilege.)
But, yes, I was not (and the rest of my novelist brothers and sisters in Christ are not) in it for the
money. Truthfully, I didn't think about $$$ at all. I knew if I could pull off a novel that was
interesting to read and glorified my Lord, then He would guide me to see where the next step would
be. He would make anything happen that He wanted to see happen. I would finally have a book to
read about characters I cared about, and maybe, in turn, He would have something He could use for
His honor and glory, whatever that may have meant. In other words, I knew the potential of what I
was undertaking. But I was completely wrapped up in the glorious fun of writing that I didn't care
about the potential. All I wanted was to write. To feed the insatiable appetite I suddenly had
coursing through my veins.
And . . . to write something that would glorify my God.
This was my goal. My hope. And my prayer. I did not want to write a story that would not cause
me to pine and long for my God. I needed for this entire little enterprise to be His from the start.
And to be for Him all the way through.
This is the truth. And I only say this because I think it matters. Because I think it made all the
difference.
Only for You, my Lord and my God. For You alone, I give . . . all. No other way. No other
reason. No other hope. But in You.
Amen.
But don't go away, that's not The End!
To be continued . . .
| page three of my entire adventure |
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