Faithchick

Spring!

Springtime calls just around the corner. My dead courtyard will soon come to life again with colors of purples, pinks, reds, greens and yellows. I can hardly believe how the seasons seem to melt together year after year. On the other hand, I love the new birth that comes with spring. It always gives me that feeling of starting over.

I mess up so often with my words, spoken and written, and so many times I want to blot them out and start over. Though I can’t erase what I’ve said—those words are as impossible to retrieve as a cluster of feathers set free by the wind—I can start over. Give new birth to my words. Look for creative ways to encourage others, write stories in a fresh new way. Springtime to me is God’s way of reminding us that there’s always room for growth, for renewal, for starting over.

So as spring approaches, I allow it to stir my creative side and teach me all the wonder that God has for us through nature.

I may not be in the springtime season of my life on the outside, but inside, I’m just starting to bloom!

--Diann

www.diannhunt.com
www.girlswriteout.blogspot.com
Hot Flashes & Cold Cream, WestBow Press
RV There Yet? WestBow Press, May 2006
Hot Tropics & Cold Feet, WestBow Press, November 2006

What’s with this I-beat-my-body-daily-to-make-it-my-slave thing that Paul talked about? Easy for him to say.

He never tasted chocolate.

All right, that’s not fair. He went through his share of beatings, torture, shipwrecks, all that. But what’s that compared to giving up sweets? I’d rather have a beating.

Okay, maybe not. I don’t mean to make light of Paul’s situation. I’m just thinking how easy it is for me to read the Word and say, “Yeah, I do that” or “I can do that,” but when it comes right down to it, I can’t—on my own. Oh, I try. I really do. But when I see that chocolate bar in the grocery, I break out in a cold sweat, and I’m ready to sell my birthright for a mere taste. Wasn’t there someone else who had that problem?

Not only that, but it takes everything in me not to throw myself into a barrel of ice cream at the local parlor. Right now, I’d give anything to be the target at a pie-throwing contest! And if one teensy glob of cream happens to find its way into my mouth . . . .

I admit it. I love sweets. How did this happen? Did my mother put syrup in my baby bottle? Did it start when I received my first stick of gum? Was it the M&Ms on the secretary’s desk at the insurance office? I don’t know. But I do know that I have to cut back. Now. Before my thighs take over the world.

So what to do?

I’m making myself accountable, first, to God. He knows how I am. Hey, He created me. Come to think of it, He created chocolate, too. He’ll get me through this—if I let Him.

Next, I’ve blogged about it on girlswriteout and now I’m blogging here. I’m also reporting to friends. Can I just say, I hate this? I’m only five days into this thing, and I’ve already found a way to make chocolate chip cookies with Splenda. I know. I need serious professional help.

Anyway, there you are. My current struggle—well, okay, one of them. And just so you know, I am beating this body daily. It’s the only way our town’s grocers will trust me in their stores.

--Diann

www.diannhunt.com
www.girlswriteout.blogspot.com
Hot Flashes & Cold Cream, WestBow Press
RV There Yet? WestBow Press, May 2006
Hot Tropics & Cold Feet, WestBow Press, November 2006

A Writer Does Not a Speaker Make

Why is it people think that if you’re a writer, you’re a speaker? I’m not EF Hutton, okay? When I speak, people do not listen--just ask my husband.

All right, that’s not totally true. My husband does listen to me (most of the time). I can speak to my family and friends without breaking out in a rash. At a party in groups of three or, say, four? No problem. But if you try to slip in a fifth person, my lips won’t move. My tongue just sort of lays there like a beached whale. Not one coherent thought comes within a twenty-five mile radius of my brain.

Put me on a platform in front of anything that breathes, and the only thing on me that moves is my heart as it tries to rip through my chest.

I was recently asked to speak for a ladies banquet. I’m planning to send one of those blown up balloon people (think Home Alone) for the platform, along with my speech on tape.

Course if they insist that I actually attend the event, I could speak from the back pew (preferably scrunched behind it). If they preferred, I could speak from the nursery area. Sound booth. The ladies room. Hey, I’m good with under the coat rack. I’m easy to please. I just hope they don’t put me on the platform to speak or there will be weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth. And it’s just not pretty coming from the banquet coordinator.

Honestly, this is an area in which I need some serious work. As in, professional counseling. Doors seem to be opening, and it’s very hard for me to take this step. Still, I want to be obedient if this is what the Lord wants of me.

But in the meantime, if you see me at conference, come over and say hello, but I would appreciate it if you would come in groups of four or less.

--Diann

www.diannhunt.com

It all starts with a box of clothes. Some heavy winter sweaters that I know I won’t wear for the rest of the season. I don’t do sweaters this year. I’m too hot. So I ask my husband to put the box in the attic for me. Since it’s Saturday, he has no major plans, so he agrees.

I tell him I’ll go make us some coffee. He carries the box out to the garage, and I go into the kitchen to get us coffee. While there, I hear this hideous grunt. I look out the window to see if our neighbors have brought home a pot-bellied pig. Nothing. I listen again. More grunting and groaning.

It’s coming from the garage.

I step from the kitchen into our garage. There is my husband standing on the steps, pushing and heaving trying to get the box into the attic.

“Do you think we might need to clear out some things?” I ask.

“No, I can do this. I know I can,” he says. Now it’s still winter, mind you, but he’s sweating like a kid in the principal’s office.

More pushing and shoving (and that’s just me at his back side).

“I don’t think it’s happening here. Maybe we should clear out some things,” I encourage.

He breathes in, gives it one more shove, and the box rushes into the overhead bin. The sound of glass breaking and falling furniture doesn’t bother my husband in the least. He turns to me, brushes his hands together, and says, “There that should do it. Now let’s go have that coffee.”

It scares me to think what’s in that attic, but I haven’t been up there since 1990, and I don’t plan to go there now.

Thinking about the debris that is lurking up there makes me realize that sometimes I do that with my mind. Fill it with the busyness of the day, the things I need to accomplish, or I clutter it with things that don’t matter--I might even harbor a bitter thought.

God sees the clutter and debris that hides in secret corners. So each day I ask Him to fill my thoughts with good things. I want to follow Phil. 4:8 and think on “whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable, if anything is excellent or praiseworthy-think about such things.”

God is faithful. With His help, I can keep my mind clear for the things that matter.

But the attic? I’m going to leave that one for my husband.

--Diann

Turning Wrinkles into Laugh Lines
www.diannhunt.com
www.girlswriteout.blogspot.com
Hot Flashes & Cold Cream, WestBow Press
RV There Yet? WestBow Press, May 2006
Hot Tropics & Cold Feet, WestBow Press, November 2006

Obsessive Compulsive? Who, Me?

A big thank you to Rachel and Mary for allowing me to blog with such a great group of writers. What fun!

I’ve never considered myself to be obsessive compulsive . . . until now. My first trade book (Hot Flashes & Cold Cream) hit the shelves in November. Our area Christian bookstore rose to the occasion and ordered twenty-five books. I should have been thrilled. Instead, I was mortified! What if they don’t sell? Will these nice people be stuck with all my books? Worse yet, will they have to return them, and we’ll forever be ducking from one another in grocery aisles, too embarrassed to talk about “it”?

At first, the bookseller and I spoke favorably as we admired my “baby” on the shelves. We discussed its future and went our separate ways. Frequently, I work at the coffee shop in the bookstore, so a few days after they got my books in I meandered through the aisles until I found myself face-to-face with “the” book.

That’s when it happened. Something came over me that I couldn’t explain. A need to do something--like take an inventory.

Looking around to make sure no one was watching, I fingered my way through my books and counted how many were left. Twenty-two. Whew, three had sold (relatives had been in). I was satisfied--until the next day.

I came back and repeated the routine. One had sold. Mom bought it.

This went on day after day until I caught some of the coworkers giving one another a “knowing” glance when they’d see me walk in. I thought about wearing a fake nose and glasses the next time I went in, but my husband said that would be too obvious. So I sent him in instead. The employees didn’t put the two of us together—YET. He counted for a while. The books slowly dwindled and I started to relax. Just when they got down to a respectable amount, I walked in to find a fresh order of my books! This time they were placed on an end cap, visible right when you walked into the store!

Now the whole town would see my books languish on the shelf.

The pressure overwhelmed me. I ate a two-pound bags of M&Ms for lunch. Every day. Without fail.

Relentlessly, I would count those books, followed by prayer and fasting (dinner, not lunch, couldn’t give up the M&Ms) that they would disappear. I ran out of relatives, so I begged friends and strangers to go buy a copy.

I gave some of them money.

Now there are only a few remaining. I may send my daughter in to buy the last copies, but I’m afraid if I do, they’ll order more. A sick way to think, I know, but there it is.

Okay, maybe I’ve slightly exaggerated this story, but you get the idea. It’s easy to get caught up in “the numbers,” the pressure of the business and get my focus off the things that truly matter. Pleasing my Lord: writing the story He lays on my heart and leaving the rest up to Him. Besides, if I don’t, I’ll eat myself into a chocolate coma. There’s not a whole lot I can do about the outcome anyway—short of mortgaging our home and buying the whole inventory. But I can rest in Him and trust that He knows what’s best for my future, come what may.

So that’s where it is—with Him. Still, if you happen to see Hot Flashes & Cold Cream languishing on a shelf . . . .

Hey, nobody’s perfect.

--Diann

Turning Wrinkles into Laugh Lines
www.diannhunt.com
www.girlswriteout.blogspot.com
Hot Flashes & Cold Cream, WestBow Press
RV There Yet? WestBow Press, May 2006
Hot Tropics & Cold Feet, WestBow Press, November 2006