Faithchick

procrastination

I love to write. Really. I love snuggling into my big blue chair and watching the words appear on the page. It's an adventure. But it's also work. Struggling through my character's development, putting decent words on the page so they make sense...all brain taxing exercises. I admit...in the pre-writing stage...I procrastinate. Do laundry. Clean the kitchen. Go online to my social sites and create stuff. And recently, I've been making videos!

This is my most recent:

Okay, maybe I'd better go write something. Or...hey, I see a bathroom cupboard that needs cleaning...

Susan May Warren is a former missionary to Russia and lover of great stories. When not penning riveting (I hope!) suspense novels for Tyndale and Steeple Hill, she can be found in Minnesota, wandering the house...thinking up stories (not necessarily writing them...). Her newest book is The Perfect Match, a romantic suspense about a woman fire chief whose presence lights a few fires in town. Look for Nothing But Trouble, Susan's new series about a wanna-be PI in May 2009! Read more about susan at her website or stop by her blog!

What I do for my novels...

I’m a big believer in research. I can spend hours tracking down cuisine, or flora and fauna, clothing, dialect. I have even been known to, say, skydive (see the video!) or ride a mechanical bull for my projects. It’s probably because I enjoy writing about things I don’t already know. I love to learn new things.

However, sometimes I learn things I don’t expect…like the time I was held hostage. Who knew it would come in handy so many times in my thrillers? Or eating squid on a stick in Taiwan – whalla, it appeared in my Wiser Than Serpents book.

Which just goes to show you, that God knows the material we need for our stories….

This week I’m having a blog tour for my book The Perfect Match. It’s a romantic suspense about a woman fire chief and the “sparks” she has with the local pastor.

A fire chief. Which meant I needed to research fire….

Below is an excerpt of an email I wrote to my family on April 2, 2004. (Just so you don’t think it happened yesterday!) I’ve changed no names to protect the guilty….

Hey all,
It’s a beautiful morning here, the sun is shining the snow is melting and the northern Warrens have many reasons to praise the Lord. Because we had a fire last night. Burned our 28 x 30 foot garage to the foundation.

We lost a lot – my husband’s multi-million dollar tool box, our cedar siding for the garage and the house, all our ski gear, our camping equipment, stuff from Russia, sleds, bikes, all my husband’s new building tools including the new compressor he’d just purchased, his turkey fryer, car gear, and….I think the cat.

But, I’ll start at the beginning.

With spring upon us, I decided that spring break seemed the perfect time to deep clean the house. So, room by room we went through (much to the children’s joy and delight) and weeded out their clothes and toys that needed to be given away or thrown. Then we moved to the playroom. We emptied the toys, and moved up furniture, including the old futon the dog loved to sleep on. I suggested to my twelve year old, Pete that he take it outside and make a bed for Gracie where her old bed was….right in front of the heater. Well, obedient Peter did that, per my instructions, and in the process, had to wedge the mattress right against the heater. Heat, oxygen, and flammable material = combustion.

I should interject here, that while Peter was creating a chemical reaction, I was on the phone with an editor, arguing about a plot line. For an hour. I figured I’d check his “work” after I got off, but of course…I immediately ran to my office to implement ideas.

Meanwhile, the fire smoldered. We figured it cooked for about four hours before it burst into flame. Around 6pm, my husband, and our two oldest kids went to town. As I was waving good-bye, I smelled smoke, but thought, Someone in the area is burning their wood heat tonight.

(God sighting #1: In retrospect, we know what it was, but I have mixed feelings about whether we could have stepped in to stop in. If I or any of the kids had gone into the garage, perhaps the sudden influx of oxygen might have caused a flashover, igniting the place into a fireball, and burning the victim. (see all the great firefighting terms I learned?))

Around 7pm, after watching a few minutes of “Legally Blonde” (no comments, please!), I went upstairs to make dinner. Peter noticed a glow in the woods off the sliding glass door.
“What’s that?” he said. Then, unable to see the source of the light, opened the entry door. I was at the stove, and I heard him say, “Wow,” then shut the door. No emotion. No panic. (To his defense, he says he was in shock).
I responded with a, “What’s Wow?”
Curious, I opened the door and beheld the garage. In inferno. Flames engulfed the garage, like fingers offering it to the sky. Sparks sprayed, raining down on our cedar house. Interestingly, I learned there is a dull roar to a large fire, a rumble of horror right down to a person’s soul.
I grabbed the phone, but like a great horror movie, it was dead. Scrounging for my keys, (and thankful that the car was parked outside), I screamed at the children -- “Get in the car!”
Of course, my youngest (Noah) was nowhere to be found. A couple years of my life ticked by before he emerged from the basement of the house. I grabbed the kids and ran them out in the snow in their barefeet (and me in slippers). Then I did a Starsky and Hutch up the driveway and flew to the neighbor’s house.
Pete said later, “Wow, Mom, I’ve never seen you drive like that.” (God sighting #2: I managed to miss the electrical transformer as I backed up our drive!)

My poor neighbor, who is also a member of our church, was watching television and of course I didn’t even knock, just burst into her house and said, “My garage is on fire, call 911!” (Poor woman. No wonder she now goes to Arizona every winter. I’d be scared to live next to me too.)
Then I told Pete and Noah to stay because I’d realized I’d left supper cooking on the stove. Yeah, that’s right, um hum. So, much to Pete’s terror I ran back out and drove to the house. My neighbor called 911 (and forgot our name, although she knows us well – thankfully Pete was there to fill her in).
Meanwhile, George, the neighbor’s husband, followed me, and had the presence of mind to grab his hose. (Mine, of course, being coiled up, frozen beside my house). Unfortunately, the water outside had been turned off for the winter, so nothing came out. I ran down the stairs, and prayed, “Lord, you’ll have to show me what that spicket looks like because I haven’t the faintest idea.” (God sighting #3!) To God be the Glory, the FIRST thing my gaze landed on when I ran into the laundry room was the water spicket.
I climbed up on the dryer and turned it on and heard the sweet sound of rushing water. Meanwhile, George’s grandsons appeared with shovels, throwing snow on the house. George took the hose and wet down the house, but I was worried about the propane tank.
That’s right, I said PROPANE tank. A recently filled propane tank that sat eight feet from the inferno.
In a spectacular team effort, I sprayed the tank while the local hero, George, turned off the supply. However, the snow in that area was still hip deep and we were stuck, our feet crashing through the crusty surface and right into the undercurrent of freezing water.
George yelled, “Crawl!” and I transported into a Mel Gibson movie, sparks flying over my head, the front wall of the garage crashing down just five feet from me. I finally rolled to safety down the snow bank.

My feet were ice, so I ran in and pulled off those boots, grabbed another pair, and that’s when my husband roared into the house. Poor man – he’d gone to church to do the bookkeeping for the week (he’s the treasurer), and the neighbor (now remembering our name) called the church and said, “There’s a fire at your house, go!”
So, of course, when he drove up our road, (in FRONT of the fire truck), all he saw was the glow of flames shooting into the sky. He thought it was our house. His voice was wrecked by the time he got inside and found me. Poor guy is going to die of a coronary due to spotty information. (And here’s a question – why am I always home alone when this stuff happens, huh?)

The fire was on its dying side when the fire department showed up. Still, it took two tankers to supply enough water to put it out. Andrew and I stood there, cataloguing our losses, thanking God for our tremendous wealth in Him, and the fact that once again, He protected us.

But here’s the best part, the God-works-in-amazing ways moment: Of course a reporter came out from the newspaper, and asked me why I was poking around the fire engines, asking questions. I told her about my newest book, The Perfect Match, and how it’s about a woman fire chief, and how, of course, I wanted to get it RIGHT. She took pictures, interviewed me, and eventually reviewed the book with a half-page in the paper.

See, you just never know what God will do when we think everything has gone up in flames.

I hope you enjoy The Perfect Match.

Susan May Warren is a former missionary to Russia and lover of great stories. When not penning riveting (I hope!) suspense novels for Tyndale and Steeple Hill, she can be found in Minnesota, just trying to get the research right. Her newest book is The Perfect Match, a romantic suspense about a woman fire chief whose presence lights a few fires in town. Look for Nothing But Trouble, Susan's new series about a wanna-be PI in May 2009! Read more about susan at her website or stop by her blog!

Saving my Tupperware

When my “To-do” list reached two pages of college ruled paper, each line filled up, I knew I had issues. And I’m not talking “dream to-do’s” like cleaning the fridge, reorganizing the spices, finally sewing that button on my kid’s pants. No, I’m talking huge, time consuming projects, like running a fundraising campaign for $300,000 for my church. Yeah, those kind of to-dos.

I had my list with me on Friday when I went to the doctor with my daughter for her strep test. I bumped into some friends, who saw me with my list. “Girlfriend, you need to learn the art of saying NO,” said one of them, in total earnestness.

No. I hate that word. I am a YES kind of mom. If it is physically possible for me to do it, (and it’s good for them) then I like to say Yes to my kids. I also like to say Yes to my friends, because I want to show them I love them. I want to say YES to my church, because I want to contribute. And I want to say Yes to my community.

I want to say Yes to my readers, who spend their time writing to encourage me. And I want to say Yes to new writers who need a little encouragement back. I want to say Yes to my husband, who needs a listening ear. And I want to say Yes to my children’s school, because if I don’t, who will?

I am a Yes girl. And the idea of saying No makes my stomach churn. But I had a dream recently about coming home to discover that someone had gone through my house and decided to have a garage sale. (Yes, for those who know, that was probably more of a memory!). The thing was – they took all my good stuff, the stuff I wanted to keep, and didn’t put out the boxes and boxes of stuff I wanted to get rid of. I ran frantically through my house, rescuing my pictures and dishes, and replacing them with old clothes, shoes, and books. “Don’t get rid of my Tupperware!” I remember shouting, in my dream.

It occurred to me after I woke up (and after checking to make sure I still had my Tupperware) that maybe this was all metaphorical. All these Yes’s I keep saying have stolen my time from the Important Yes’s in my life. Like my quiet time, my family time, my writing time. It’s like the garage sale people, coming in to take away the stuff I value…leaving me with the stuff I’ve really wanted to get rid of for a long time.

Like commitments that others could do just as well, or better than me. Or opportunities to serve that I’m taking from others.

I expressed my angst to my girlfriend, who responded with. “Saying NO is a craft, an art, and you have to work on it. But here’s a tool…You don’t have to say the word No. Say… ‘That doesn’t work for me right now’.” Ah-ha!

Can you run the Children’s Musical? That doesn’t work for me right now.
Can you bring three dozen cupcakes to the class party? That doesn’t work for me right now.
I like it!

It’s a season of Yes’s for many of us. So, I give you this tool as a gift… “That doesn’t work for me right now!” Let’s say it all together, now!

Now go, enjoy your Tupperware.

Susan May Warren is a former missionary to Russia and lover of great stories. When not penning riveting (I hope!) suspense novels for Tyndale and Steeple Hill, she can be found in Minnesota, storing up the good stuff in her Tupperware. Her newest book is Chill Out, Josey, the hilarious adventures of a Minnesota girl who goes to Russia. And be sure and stop by WHO'S RAFE? for a glimpse at her upcoming book (out in January!). Read more about susan at her website or stop by her blog!

Driving Questions

Well, it’s here. That time in every parent’s life that we dread, that one evitable season where we live on faith and with one eye closed…yep, you guessed it…The Learner’s Permit. I’m thinking that there needs to be an accessory added to every car when a kid hits 15 that allows a parent to grab the wheel and slam on the brakes and avert sure disaster. I mean, have you tried to leap the center mount of a SUV while said car is sliding into a ditch? People can get hurt, and I’m talking BEFORE the impact with the guardrail.

Yeah, my oldest son is driving, and it’s made for some interesting personal discoveries. Like the fact that yes, although my husband has been insinuating this for years, I am indeed a control freak. I’m also narrow minded (But it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the INTENT behind the rule that the driver gets to choose the music, is really, MOM gets to choose the music.) And, yes, okay, I’m a bit of a hypocrite. Because driving above the speed limit is not an option. (I don’t care what my son thinks he’s seen from the passenger seat over the years!)

The truth is, I’m not necessarily liking this side of me…The Passenger side.

I don’t know when it happened, but suddenly I woke up and discovered I’d become a sort of passenger in my children’s lives. I’m seeing them take control, do their own driving. It’s not easy handing over those keys, I have to admit.

Moreover, they’re onto the ploys I’ve used over the years, my telling them there is only one direction to travel, and how fast they should get there. Like with clothing choices, and dating choices. And spiritual journeys.

So, I’ve come up with a new strategy to help them as they take control of the wheel. Here it is, Susie’s I-hope-it-works Secret to Staying on the Road…

It’s…the Driving Question.

It’s those questions that make you ponder, that you have to probe deep inside to answer, but that actually lead to value statements, and perhaps inner reflection. My new strategy is to fire off one of these questions shortly after I get into the car, while I’m sitting in the passenger’s seat. The depth of it compels my child to 1. Not listen to the radio, 2. Watch his speed because he’s not trying to get away from my annoying harping, and 3. Keeps us all feeling like even if we die in this excursion, at least we’ll do it with a deep thought in our minds.

Teenagers are all about the deep questions in life. They like to ponder life’s meaning, and why they’re here, and write thoughtful poetry and songs about their conclusions. (At least MY teenagers are like this…?)

So, on any given day, these are the kind of questions I ask my teenage drivers….

1. What is the most important thing to you right now in your life?
2. If you could change anything about today, or yesterday, what would it be?
3. If you could change one thing about yourself what would you change?
4. What is the one thing you like about yourself?
5. If you had three wishes, what would they be? (You’re not allowed to wish for money or another wish!)
6. Do you see God working in your life lately, and how?
7. Do you know how much your family loves you? How can you tell?

Okay, now these aren’t magic questions. Sometimes my teenagers just look at me and turn the radio up.
But sometimes, they ponder, we talk…and we get to where we’re really trying to go. Driving questions. For those of us sitting in the passenger’s seat….

Susan May Warren is a former missionary to Russia and lover of great stories. When not penning riveting (I hope!) suspense novels for Tyndale and Steeple Hill, she can be found in Minnesota, with her seat belt on, holding on for dear life. Stop by MEET NICK for a glimpse at her newest book (just appearing now in bookstores!). Read more about susan at her website or stop by her blog!

Resolutions, or something like them

Yes, I admit it. I buy into the whole, “Time to make New Year’s Resolutions” thing every year. Like Dorothy in the Emerald City, I believe that if I make my “wish” and tap my feet three times, that resolution will happen. “I will lose ten pounds, I will lose ten pounds.” Or “I will make healthy dinners as opposed to frozen pizza…” (that’s hard to say quickly over and over, which maybe says something for whether or not it should be said?) However, well, you and I both know it takes commitment, and a plan and willingness to sacrifice bad habits to make a resolution work. And while, although I have all three of those qualities, perhaps I don’t have them all at the same time.

But it’s more than that. It’s almost as if, by making the resolution, I am dooming myself NOT to complete it. Like I’m making a laundry list of my failures. SO, I’ve decided to approach this whole Resolution Making thing from a different angle.

My Resolutions for 2007:

1. I resolve NOT to run a marathon this year. I won’t even consider the idea, I won’t plan for it, I won’t pay my entry fee, and I refuse to even surf websites with cool get-in-shape plans.
2. I resolve to eat Pizza every night of the week.
3. I will never do my dinner dishes until the next morning.
4. I will ALWAYS snack on junk food in the middle of the afternoon.
5. I will wait at least a week before retuning my email.
6. I will procrastinate on all my writing projects and choose to watch television instead of write.
7. Clean laundry is optional. I will cherish the moments I get to dig through the dirty clothes pile for something to wear, as if I might be on a treasure hunt.
8. I will always wake up grumpy.
9. I will forget to take my vitamins every morning.
10. And, most importantly, I will make sure every library book is at least a month overdue, with no less than an $8.00 fine.

I know it’ll be tough, but I’ve got a good feeling about these this year...

God bless and Happy Resolution-making for 2007!

Susan May Warren is a former missionary to Russia and lover of great stories. When not penning riveting (I hope!) suspense novels for Tyndale and Steeple Hill, she can be found in Minnesota, drinking coffee and making resolutions she can live with. SANDS OF TIME, the sequel to her award-winning IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING with Steeple Hill hit the stands in October. Stop by MEET NICK for a glimpse at her newest book (just appearing now in bookstores!). Read more about susan at her website or stop by her blog!

Crazy Making

I really don’t try to drive my daughter crazy. I promise I don’t. But from our conversation this morning as she left the house, (into 20 degree weather with a wet, uncombed, freshly showered head), one would think I’m trying to drive her insane.

“Sarah, did you forget to comb your hair?” I say as her mop drips onto her coat.

“No, I like it this way.”

“But it will dry in a tangle.”

“Mom!”

“And your head is wet. It’s cold out. You need a hat.” This is where I help, by picking up a hat and offering it to her.

“Mom! That’s an ugly hat!” She whips it from my hands. Never mind that is the hat I got her for Christmas last year. She picks up another hat. A truly ugly hat. Shoves it on her head while she sends me a look that oh-so-clearly defines how she feels about that.

“I love you and just don’t want you to get sick,” I say sweetly.

“You can’t get sick from a wet head. I learned that in 7th grade science.” Emphasis on 7th, only because that was LAST year and boy am I stupid. She gives me a kiss. “I’m taking it off the minute I get on the bus.”

“Oh good. Then everyone can see your new grunge look.” She rolls her eyes as I wave to her. “Love you!”

She waves back.

I’ve been thinking about this all day only because my mother called earlier today and dropped a comment that has me stewing now, for three hours. Why, oh why do our mothers possess the special powers to drive us crazy? And why do I, at the age of forty, still buy into it like I’m thirteen and don’t want to wear my hat to school?

Maybe because inside, I still don’t want her to be right about the hat. Or maybe I just want her to listen to me, to know I have my own style.

I called a girlfriend for a little therapy, and we decided to write a list of the things that we absolutely would NOT do when our little girls grow up to be grown women.

1. We would not, under any circumstances, offer to clean the house just because “we saw that you were busy and the bathroom needed tidying anyway.” If we clean, it’s because said daughter had a baby or a life threatening operation, or, we’re there for the weekend and want to “do our part,” (not that the house needed it or anything).

2. We would not remind our daughters that “Wow, your youngest is already 10 years old. Are you going to pick up those exercise classes you dropped during pregnancy?” Size 14 is not fat.

3. We would not comment on how “we vacuumed every day, whether the house needed it or not.” So our house was clean. Let us remember that the dog also lived in fear under the bed.

4. And no one needs to know just how often we sewed on buttons, hemmed and patched pants, darned socks and knitted slippers for our children. We rock. We know that. Besides, she does help me figure out how to use the remote control to the television.

5. Finally, hand-me downs like dishes and photos and other heirlooms will not suffer the, “Oh, did I really give that to you?” question every time we see them. If they are hanging in daughter’s house, we will assume she did NOT steal them and in fact, although our brains can’t remember it, we did in fact give said item to her. And no, we will not ask for it back. No. No. No.

The one thing I WILL do, however, is remind my daughter that I love her, like my mother did me. That Christmas is a time to forgive, and live above the crazy-making, and for one day, smile and put on our hats.

Because even though I make her crazy, I’m still her mother, and thus, probably right about a few things. And I won’t be around forever. So what’s a hat in the big scheme of things? Besides, she’ll have her chance to make her daughter crazy, too.

I promise.

Merry Christmas out there to all the other crazy-makers in the world!

Susan May Warren is a former missionary to Russia and lover of great stories. When not penning riveting (I hope!) suspense novels for Tyndale and Steeple Hill, she can be found in Minnesota, drinking coffee and driving her daughter crazy. SANDS OF TIME, the sequel to her award-winning IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING with Steeple Hill hit the stands in October. Stop by MEET NICK for a glimpse at her newest book (out in Jan!). Read more about susan at her website or stop by her blog!

Duel of the Red Jacket

I don’t get out a lot. Really, I’m serious. I live in the woods, ten miles from town, which is only about 1300 people. It’s THREE hours to the nearest big town, the nearest McDonalds (didn’t know that was possible, did you?), the nearest movie theater, the nearest MALL. So, a shopping day for me means getting up at 6am, piling into the car (which has to be unloaded of all the junk in the back end – and don’t tell me you don’t know what I mean – the sports gear, the empty soda cans, the old spare that still hasn’t been put back on it’s rack --), gassing up the tank (there goes half my shopping budget), stopping at the Java Joint, and driving through the mist that filters off the lake, eyes peeled for deer. By the time I pull into the Mall, I’m already exhausted. But my to-do list is two pages, college-ruled paper, both sides, so I am a woman on a mission. I don’t dilly. I don’t dally. I aim, and shoot, and there is no deviation from the goal.

I’ve begun to hate shopping. Because, at heart, I’m a meanderer. I live on ideas. And that’s what shopping is, really, the trolling for ideas – (ie, hey, that’s a cute outfit, I think I have a shirt like that at home, but I never thought of wearing it like that before – or, “hey, would this sixtie’s style blouse look remotely good on me?”) There’s the home décor ideas, and the shoes, oh the shoes! And yes, I mentally assess every woman my age who walks by, checking out her clothes, shoes, handbag, hair…just in case it might look good on me, too.

I like ideas. So, when I got the chance last weekend to head down to the MALL OF AMERICA with a girlfriend for a serious idea gathering weekend I expected to return home full of new outfits, real or imagined.

I didn’t realize that God would turn it into something spiritual. After all, it’s just shopping, right?

So, my girlfriend and I are good friends – we’ve gone camping together and go to the same church, even hang out for “chick night” as our husbands call it. But we’ve never road-tripped before and I didn’t know how we’d do for a long time together. (And it’s not because of her, but because although I LOOK like an E (as in extrovert), I’m really an I (introvert) that sounds like E. I need my I-time).

I wanted us, however, to have a fabulous time. So, I prayed about it.

We made it to our hotel, and then to the Mall and I was in Mall Heaven. Because we are both accustomed to the Sniper approach to shopping (as opposed to the buckshot, meandering approach) we headed straight for DSW for boots. Two hours later, we came out, (armed with seriously great, non-North- Shore-Woodsy boots). But the meandering spirit had set in and we drifted. Ah, I love drifting. We finally docked at Coldwater Creek. I tend to be more of an Old Navy and Gap girl, but in the window of CC, we spotted a beautiful red suede jacket and it drew us in like a lighthouse. We both headed for the rack, and grabbed our sizes and tried them on. Mine looked good…a little baggy in the back. But hers looked fabuloso, hitting her just right. And with her dark hair, it looked stunning on her. Oh, I liked that jacket.

“Mine doesn’t fit right,” I said, putting it back.

“Try mine,” she said, handing over her petite size. Normally, I’m not a petite gal, if you know what I mean. But I tried it on.

And it fit. And looked great. NEARLY as great as it looked on her.

And right then I knew, I’d have to choose. Red Jacket, or Friend. Because, of course, it was the ONLY red jacket in that size in the entire store.

Red Jacket. Friend. Red Jacket. Friend. “Take it,” she said.

Philippians 1:10 talks about us being rooted in love (God’s) so that we will be able to choose what is best, filled with the fruit of righteousness… Summed up, it means that knowing who we are in Christ allows us to pass by all the “good” things in life in pursuit of the excellent. It also means that it will produce fruit (ie, kindness, unselfishness…) in our lives.

I looked at the jacket. I looked at my friend. And I remembered my prayer. Had God given me this moment to choose the best? Good would be buying the jacket. BEST would be seeing it on her every week in church, remembering the fun we had together.

I lost the duel (but she says I can visit the jacket whenever I want). But I gained laughter and tease and a friendship that survives even shopping. And maybe that's the best outfit of all.

Susan May Warren is a former missionary to Russia and lover of great stories. When not penning riveting (I hope!) suspense novels for Tyndale and Steeple Hill, she can be found in Minnesota, drinking coffee and dreaming of shopping. SANDS OF TIME, the sequel to her award-winning IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING with Steeple Hill hit the stands in October. Stop by MEET NICK for a glimpse at her newest book (out in Jan!). Read more about susan at her website or stop by her blog!

I want to play!

I’m having an out of body experience. Really. Because every day as I sit and watch my teenage daughter rehearse for her role in Suessical, I can almost feel her tension, her excitement, this opportunity to grow wings and become her own person. I know I am way biased, because I think she is delightful and beautiful and the world should rejoice when she walks into the room. (well, except HER room, which we won’t talk about.) But as I see her taking up the theater baton that I laid down twenty years ago, not only taking it up but running with it with a grace I never had, I can’t help but feel again young, full of energy. As if I might be fourteen and experiencing for the first time the joy of trying on roles, personalities. Figuring which of them might be me.

I am really bummed that I’m not in this season’s community play. I made a mistake (although I’m preferring to call it a God timing) when I scheduled a speaking event for the night of one of the performances. Because I can barely stay seated in my chair, every cell inside me rocking out with my daughter, learning the music (just in case they need understudy.)

But I can’t be in everything, I can’t do everything.

Oh, but I want to! I want to get up on stage and play with the kids! But as I sit in the auditorium, it strikes me – if I were on stage, I couldn’t WATCH. For the last two years, I’ve been in the cast…and missed out on watching the performance. Watching the mistakes, the triumphs, of watching my children blossom and grow.

Isn’t that the way it is? We want to be in the action, experience it all. But maybe we’re not supposed to. Maybe sometimes God asks us to sit on the sidelines, to cheer for the ones we love, to praise him for all He’s doing, onstage and off.

Maybe it’s not so horrible to sit in the audience after all. Because, like I said, I get to live vicariously through my daughter. One of what I hope are many vicarious moments. And I get to be me, bursting with pride as I see her sing her heart out.

So maybe I have the best of both worlds.

Susan May Warren is a former missionary to Russia and lover of great stories. When not penning riveting suspense novels for Tyndale and Steeple Hill, she can be found in Minnesota, drinking coffee and living vicariously thorugh her teenagers! SANDS OF TIME, the sequel to her award-winning IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING with Steeple Hill hits the shelves later this month. Read more about susan at her website or stop by her blog!

Listening to the Lions

I am in the midst of lions; I lie among ravenous beasts – men whose teeth are spears and arrows, whose tongues are sharp swords. Psalm 57: 4

You should water those impatiens along your walk. Your grass is dying – water that too. And what about the overflowing recycling bin – what a mess! You said you’d paint the picnic table this summer, and if you’d just clean out your cupboards you might not have purchased that extra can of pineapple. How will your children ever learn to do laundry if you don’t teach them? And I saw your inbox – was that really 200 emails that are unanswered?

You forgot to fill out the school forms, again. And you should have at least SOME idea what you might fix for supper. Did you pay the bills today? Let’s try and be a little more organized for children’s church, this Sunday, shall we? And yes, you are going to have to step on the scale tomorrow morning, so some exercise instead of television watching might keep your brain and body from turning to goo.

Welcome to the inside of my head.

Voices. Little, harping voices, chipping away at my day, morphing into full out roars when I try and cover my ears. I wish I knew how to ignore the voices, focus on the essentials. But sometimes it feels like everything is essential, that everything matters.

Pay attention to me, they roar. Because if you don’t you will be less. Less of a mother, a gardener, a homemaker, a wife, a writer, a woman. Less.

But in fact, I wonder if the lions actually make me less. Their incessant roars have the power to paralyze me, to weaken me and drown out God’s voice. To make me focus on the things I HAVEN’T accomplished. With their roar around me, I feel weak, ineffectual. Defeated.

I love it when my parents visit us – about once a year they stop in for a few days, and they sort of catalogue our growth – Oh, you painted your office, or, Doesn’t your garden look nice? You sided the garage, and I love the program you designed for children’s church. Wow, another book – you write faster than I can read!

Seeing their perspective gives me an “above the pit” view of my life among the lions. Maybe I AM making progress.

I cry out to God Most High, to God who fulfils His purpose for me. He sends from heaven rebuking those who hotly pursue me. In short – When I cry out to God, he shuts the lions’ mouths.

I have to believe that God doesn’t want me to live life trembling from the roar of the lions. He wants me to live like Daniel, knowing I am safely in God’s hands, upheld by grace. He will tell me what is important…and what isn’t. Most of all, he says to me, Here is my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen one in whom I delight. (Is 42:1)

Not because I have a beautiful garden. Or a spotless house. Or even best-selling books. But because I listen to Him. Because I’m His.

His voice says I'm not less. I'm just right.

So as I look toward fall, and home-schooling, and writing and speaking and starting children’s church and chairing various church committees and running kids to football and theater practice and preparing for the holidays, I’ve decided something.

Every time I hear a lion roar, I’m going to ask God to shut the lion’s mouth. And I’m going to listen intently for His voice -- the voice of grace.

Susan May Warren is a former missionary to Russia and lover of great stories. When not penning riveting suspense novels for Tyndale and Steeple Hill, she can be found in Minnesota, drinking coffee and ignoring the lions. SANDS OF TIME, the sequel to her award-winning IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING with Steeple Hill hits the shelves later this month. Read more about susan at her website or stop by her blog!

Contend for Me!

I am clearly in over my head. For months now, I’ve woken in the morning with a doom hanging over me, a sort of cloud that blots out the rustle of the wind through the trees, the birds singing, the sunshine through my red curtains.

It’s my to-do list. Master To-Do. He owns me. And I can never please MTD because, like evil Pharaoh who made the Israelites hunt for their own straw while requiring them to construct the same number of bricks, every time I get something done, evil Master To-Do adds something else.

Makes a girl want to move to Hawaii or something. Leave it all behind. And should you think I jest, let me just say that a flight to Jamaica on Travelocity is only $500…

The thing is, I thought I had a handle on my life. Thought I was getting it done, maybe not in style, but hey, I distinctly remember a home-cooked meal at least once last week, and I was not only in church on Sunday with matching clothes, but managed to pull off children’s church with a smile.

Yeah, I can do this, I thought. I had even helped my son Peter pack for his big week at camp, producing not only a freshly-purchased rain poncho, but sunscreen and bug dope, as well as a fully filled out medical form. I was feeling good when hubby and I packed Peter in the car and headed to camp, some five-plus hours from our house. So we arrived thirty minutes after check in time – we arrived, didn’t we?

We headed for the camp office to check him in. The sounds of excited children filled the courtyard. Peter was just in time for dinner and fun. Sidling up to the counter, I said, “I’m here to check my son in for camp.”

The cute blonde receptionist pulled out the list for the week and began running her finger down the names until she came to the Ws. She frowned. Looked up at me. “What’s his name?”

I repeated, and just to help, sorta leaned over the desk, peering at the list upside-down. I noted it had the title, “Young Teens Camp.” Peter is eleven…not quite a young teen. “I think you have the wrong week there.”

She looked up at me, looked at the page, the dates. Shook her head. “Nope.” Then, as a coldness slid through me, she said, “I have a Sarah Warren here…but no Peter for this week.”

Sarah. My daughter Sarah. Who was also signed up for camp….next week. The same Sarah who was back home….five-plus hours back home….

I looked at the blonde and hung onto the counter, feeling my knees turn noodley. “Please, please don’t tell me that I brought the wrong kid to camp.”

Everything went very, very quiet. In the office. In my brain. My son barreled into the room at that moment – “Hey mom, what cabin am I in?”

I turned, wide-eyed and took a deep breath. “Perhaps you should step outside for just a moment.”

He obeyed without comment, probably afraid of the hue of my face. Thankfully, the Camp Director happened to be standing nearby and she quickly shoved me into a chair and began consulting her cabin status. “We have a spot for him,” she said, offering hope.

“But this is the only week we have open for your daughter.”
Of course it was.

“We’ll hold her spot if you want to go back and get her.”

Oh sure, I’ll just scurry home and be back in a jiffy. I sighed. Put my head between my knees.

“We’ll get her here,” my husband said quietly.

We got Peter settled into his cabin, and set back along our course, me still light-headed. I called Sarah. Told her to start packing (which meant digging through the Everest size laundry pile for clothing that a. didn’t smell or b. could be washed and dried in time). I told her we’d leave first thing in the morning.

And this is where God stepped in. The moment where Psalm 35:22 came to life. “Lord, you have seen this; do not be silent. Awake and rise to my defense! Contend for me my God and Lord!” Of course, my only enemy here was…uh, myself and my dysfunctional need to say yes to everything. But still, God stepped in…via my cell phone.

On the other line was my pal Naomi. Who was wondering if I might be home and free to hang out.
I burst into hysterical laughter, then explained my plight.

And she said… “How about if I pick her up and drive her half-way to meet you?”

Again, I needed to put my head between my knees.

But that’s what happened. My incredible friend dropped her life, drove a half-hour the other direction to pick up my daughter and then drove two hours to meet my hubby and me so we could drive Sarah to camp.

Getting Sarah there just as the lights-out bell chimed.

“Contend Lord, with those who contend with me. Fight against those who fight against me.” Sometimes I wonder if I am my own worst enemy. The good part is that God is for me… “The Lord be exalted who delights in the well-being of his servant.”

At least I have someone one my side. Fighting against the me who would make a mess of my life. “My tongue will proclaim your praises all day long.”

Now, if one of these Me’s could just remember to pick up the kids on Saturday…

Susan May Warren is a former missionary to Russia and lover of great stories. When not penning riveting suspense novels for Tyndale and Steeple Hill, she can be found in Minnesota, drinking coffee and trying to hide from Master To-Do list. Her newest suspense-romance from Steeple Hill, IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING is a 2006 CHRISTY AWARD FINALIST. Her first chick novel EVERYTHING'S COMING UP JOSEY - rated a Top Pick and 4.5 stars from Romantic Times Magazine - is out now with Steeple Hill Cafe. Read more about susan at her website or stop by her blog!