What Matters Most

Really.

What matters most to you? What makes your world go around?

This is the question that whacked me over the head recently, at The Colorado Christian Writer's Conference, in Estes Park. During my four days there, I received the best of everything--view; food; fellowship; awesome encounters with agents, editors, and brothers and sisters in Christ. I was so set-up for surprises.

It felt like my birthday, Christmas, and wedding anniversary, all wrapped up in one.

I thought I already had the best of everything.

Somebody rocked my boat.

Not that I'm not thankful for everything and everyone in my life--because I am.

It's just that sometimes we think all is so well that we don't notice an amazing rainbow overhead, or the twinkle in a neighbor's eye. We have so much good and think there is no room for more. Why look around? We focus on what we already have.

Normally I push an attitude of contentment as a good thing, no, a great thing, and from God.

But contentment turned to complacency equals missing out.

The way I was headed reminds me of the men in my family, when I was young, falling asleep shortly after holiday dinners--snoozing it off. So full. Too full for more. Many softball games and waterbomb fights went on without them.

I don't want to miss anything.

Today I am renewed with vision, hope, and the promise of purposeful work. I plan to stay that way. I want more of what God has to give.

It's a great big world out there, with gifts, smiles, and hugs to give and receive.

To Him "who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine"(Eph.3:20 NIV) I owe my energy, my attention, my time, my exuberance and passion. Everything good is of Him, by Him and for Him.

Something to think about.

Bringing It Home

Well, if you look at hard cold facts, really I didn't, as far as the writing competition at The OWFI Fortieth Annual Writer's Conference that is.

All you would see is the second place silent auction basket I created, which is lovely and beautiful, but has nothing to do with stellar writing craft.

I almost ruined that darned basket. The delicate cutie made it from Texas to Oklahoma in my friend's car without a hitch and then my name tag catches one of the fancies I've attached to it and we hear "psshhooo." That was the sound of a shrink-wrap rip. Thankfully, I had fake stick-on jewels and clear tape. I patched it up with bling and wa-la, she soared.

That was Thursday night's excitement.

Now it's Friday, the day of the night of Buzz Sessions - what I organize for OWFI - and all I've done since my arrival is run around scouting out spaces for fourteen meetings. My hair literally stands on end. My face is peeling from lack of Southeast Texas humidity. I'm slathered in tea tree oil but you'd never know because my dry skin and hair immediately slurped it up.

But I'm hanging in.

I've done the elliptical trainer. I've done yoga stretches and quiet meditation even, yet I tell a roommate (Hi Cassie!) I need time alone to pray and read my Bible before pitching my memoir to a bigtime NY agent at 10:50 a.m. A tension headache brews. The deal about not picking my cuticles is off. With all my early morning maintenance, I'm still a mess.

And me being a mess feels wrong. Everyone in my circle knows I lean heavily on God for peace in the midst of whatever.

Hope and peace must be hiding way deep inside at this moment because it ain't showing on the surface, let me tell ya.

But the coolest thing happens.

My prayer is short - "Lord, I've got ten minutes left. Please speak to me. Please show me something in your word to calm my nerves and give me the confidence I need for this agent appointment."

I randomly open my Bible:

"The Lord their God will save them on that day as the flock of his people. They will sparkle in his land like jewels in a crown." Zechariah 9:16 NIV

I remember the jewels on the basket covering the tear. I am so torn like that basket. God has a sense I humor. He makes me chuckle and confirms his love for me at the same time.

I am soothed and ready.

I speak to Ann Hawkins of The John Hawkins Agency in NY, the oldest agency in the country. Ann likes my story, says it might become another "The Curious Incident of a Dog at Nighttime." This is exactly what a different NY biggie said two years ago. One day I may get why. Anyway, she says it's YA (young adult) and she doesn't do YA. I should talk with Doris Boothe, who is seated at the next table. I thank her and step out of the room.

Immediately, I hear, "Doris Boothe has a no-show." The appointment coordinators of course hate when this happens. These people have come a long way to find talent.

"I'm here. I'll talk to her," I said.

I spun around, went back in, and delivered my pitch a second time. I had fun with it. She requested pages.