I have an idea floating around inside of my head, it's been part of the old goldfish bowl mounted on my shoulders for several years now as a vague, unspecific threat, but now it has a name and face.
I desperately want to start a women's magazine that would encourage and inspire women, instead of showing them what they'll never look like, no matter how many toes or ribs they have removed... instead of giving them the most devilish chocolate cake recipe and then telling them how they can lose the 10 pounds they just gained from looking at the photo of the danged thing.
Now I'm putting down some story ideas... categories... need some columns, but am really excited by what's turning up so far. One is a story about Title IX. I want to delve into the delectable story about two women in congress who pushed through some legislation that made it possible for me and countless other young girls to play softball back in 1972 as an organized sport for the first time. An actual little league.
Dang, we were good! Undefeated except for one practice game, to the opposing team's delight. We shrugged it off. Three years of winning every game we ever played did a lot to instill confidence and teamwork in the hearts of about a dozen little girls. What other experience could have replaced that one?
Both of these women are dead. What a shame. I'd love to send them a hug through the phone or e-mail, and talk to them personally. The investigative journalist in me can't wait to explore all the interesting facts and stories behind this one!
Most of all, I wish I could tell them what a friend who was a boy (but I wished it had been more) said when he came to one of my games: "Not bad for a bunch of girls." Or, what my response was: "And we don't even need a tee like you boys do to hit the ball... we use a pitcher!!!"
Monday, October 25, 2004
Friday, October 22, 2004
Richly treasured
I wrote awhile ago that I'd write more about Rich Mullins later. But I'm not feeling too inspired this morning. Rich had the gift for inspiration. He'd get that funny raspy sound in his voice that made you lean closer when he was about to say something so profound and thick with meaning that you could pick it up with a fork...
He seemed ahead of his time, but I'm not sure that time would have ever been ready for him. Much has been written about Rich by people who knew him a whole lot better than I did. But pretty much anyone who encountered Rich walked away with a memorable story. This is mine.
Right after I graduated from KU in 1989, we moved to Wichita. I wanted to be closer to my family, especially if I was going to start my own. I still believe this was a great decision, although it may have stunted me a little professionally. My sister hooked us up with a landlord who was an elder at her church, and rented property owned by the St. Joseph Convent or Hospital. We landed at 3719 E. Zimmerly. We didn't have much, so everything but our books fit nicely. I loved it most because it was secluded and had a fireplace...
My first son, Gannon, was born here. Well, actually it happened at Wesley Hospital, but it was the little house on Zimmerly where we brought him home to.. where we retreated to the basement with an outside door those late afternoons in spring when the tornado sirens wailed... and it was often that I had supper on the stove and had to turn it off in the middle of cooking that year. 2000. McConnell got hit. Hesston got hit. Not a good year to be pregnant or have a newborn.
Anyhow, I didn't know much about Rich, other than he was this singer who went to church with my sister at Central Christian. She'd given me a tape of another singer from her church, so it didn't seem to be anything unusual or largely significant.
Rich and Beaker, his roommate and co-musician, lived in this little white rental house and paid their rent to the same landlord we did... they drove old pickups with the big round fenders and played outside in the front yard with their big dogs. They'd be gone for months at a time...
Behind us lived Doris Howard, wife of Maurice, a preacher that Rich had followed to Wichita from Indiana, who pastored at Central before his sudden death. I came to know and love Doris and especially her daughter, Sherri McCready. God spoke to me in a magnanimous way through the hours I spent copyediting Sherri's books, which told about her deep, thick encounters with God. How she trusted God to bring her teen ministry transportation, so naively, so trusting that she sat on the curb and waited for it to come. It did.
Then my sister divorced, and moved from one little house south of our brother's to the back of one just south of us, right across the street from Doris. If you can picture a square, we were at the top of it, or the north... Cheryl and Doris were on the street south of us, or at the bottom of the square... Rich and Beaker were on the street west, or on the left side of the square.
If the left side of the square extended farther up than the top of the square, that was where Rich's manager and fellow singers/musicians Nicki and Lee Lundgren lived. They were part of the original Ragamuffin Band. I fed their cats while they were off touring or on vacation one time. I was in Rich and Beaker's house once, while Cheryl went over to check the mail or something. She cleaned house for them from time to time.
I almost forgot to mention. Just east of us, on the top of the square, was Rich's friend from college in Cinncinatti, Kathy Sprinkle, but everything just knew her as Sprinkle. She was one of the first DJs for Lite 99 radio station. I sat on the front porch a lot and watched Rich walk back and forth from his house to Sprinkles. We never talked much, never acknowledged each other much...
Later, when we moved to the west side of town, I grew to appreciate Rich's music with much more understanding and spiritual passion. It filled something inside of me, gave words to my anguish and longing and joy and exasperation I felt toward God. I got into Christian music, and noticed there was something different about Rich's creations. So different. So unpop. So against the stream...
My sister started getting into booking and staging Christian concerts, and that allowed me to interview people like Billy Sprague and Eric Champion when they came to town. But I longed to talk one on one with this mysterious creative genius known simply as Rich.
And that is where I'll end this entry. More later.
He seemed ahead of his time, but I'm not sure that time would have ever been ready for him. Much has been written about Rich by people who knew him a whole lot better than I did. But pretty much anyone who encountered Rich walked away with a memorable story. This is mine.
Right after I graduated from KU in 1989, we moved to Wichita. I wanted to be closer to my family, especially if I was going to start my own. I still believe this was a great decision, although it may have stunted me a little professionally. My sister hooked us up with a landlord who was an elder at her church, and rented property owned by the St. Joseph Convent or Hospital. We landed at 3719 E. Zimmerly. We didn't have much, so everything but our books fit nicely. I loved it most because it was secluded and had a fireplace...
My first son, Gannon, was born here. Well, actually it happened at Wesley Hospital, but it was the little house on Zimmerly where we brought him home to.. where we retreated to the basement with an outside door those late afternoons in spring when the tornado sirens wailed... and it was often that I had supper on the stove and had to turn it off in the middle of cooking that year. 2000. McConnell got hit. Hesston got hit. Not a good year to be pregnant or have a newborn.
Anyhow, I didn't know much about Rich, other than he was this singer who went to church with my sister at Central Christian. She'd given me a tape of another singer from her church, so it didn't seem to be anything unusual or largely significant.
Rich and Beaker, his roommate and co-musician, lived in this little white rental house and paid their rent to the same landlord we did... they drove old pickups with the big round fenders and played outside in the front yard with their big dogs. They'd be gone for months at a time...
Behind us lived Doris Howard, wife of Maurice, a preacher that Rich had followed to Wichita from Indiana, who pastored at Central before his sudden death. I came to know and love Doris and especially her daughter, Sherri McCready. God spoke to me in a magnanimous way through the hours I spent copyediting Sherri's books, which told about her deep, thick encounters with God. How she trusted God to bring her teen ministry transportation, so naively, so trusting that she sat on the curb and waited for it to come. It did.
Then my sister divorced, and moved from one little house south of our brother's to the back of one just south of us, right across the street from Doris. If you can picture a square, we were at the top of it, or the north... Cheryl and Doris were on the street south of us, or at the bottom of the square... Rich and Beaker were on the street west, or on the left side of the square.
If the left side of the square extended farther up than the top of the square, that was where Rich's manager and fellow singers/musicians Nicki and Lee Lundgren lived. They were part of the original Ragamuffin Band. I fed their cats while they were off touring or on vacation one time. I was in Rich and Beaker's house once, while Cheryl went over to check the mail or something. She cleaned house for them from time to time.
I almost forgot to mention. Just east of us, on the top of the square, was Rich's friend from college in Cinncinatti, Kathy Sprinkle, but everything just knew her as Sprinkle. She was one of the first DJs for Lite 99 radio station. I sat on the front porch a lot and watched Rich walk back and forth from his house to Sprinkles. We never talked much, never acknowledged each other much...
Later, when we moved to the west side of town, I grew to appreciate Rich's music with much more understanding and spiritual passion. It filled something inside of me, gave words to my anguish and longing and joy and exasperation I felt toward God. I got into Christian music, and noticed there was something different about Rich's creations. So different. So unpop. So against the stream...
My sister started getting into booking and staging Christian concerts, and that allowed me to interview people like Billy Sprague and Eric Champion when they came to town. But I longed to talk one on one with this mysterious creative genius known simply as Rich.
And that is where I'll end this entry. More later.
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
A day after an anniversary
Well, it's happened ... another one of those inexplicable things that sometimes happens in life.
I got an e-mail about someone from my hometown who's written a book and is offering it in an electronic format. Not too significant, other than it's the perfect way to offer people the manuscript I've been working on for more than a decade.
It works like this: Send them the first two chapters for free, then if they're intrigued enough they can send the author 10 bucks to receive the rest of the book as a PDF through their e-mail.
WOW! Perfect for my triple murder mystery, since my friends and people who live where this happened in the 1920s (Meriden, Kansas) have been eager to read it, and I have no budget for printing. Nor the time or energy to keep querying publishers.
We did have a few highlights along the way. Perhaps some of that will happen again. A guy from Paramount called me, in my home, to see if the book was in a screenplay format. It wasn't. But I wrote it that way. Sent it to a guy my sister knows at William Morris Agency in Nashville. It only received lukewarm coverage (review).
Also received a personal letter from someone at Miramax saying it was an interesting story, and wished me good luck along the way.
Life has gotten in the way. A life-changing, deep despair that altered me forever got in the way. So did a divorce. So did raising two wonderful boys, working full time, driving back and forth to work an hour or more a day, and taking on a second job.
So I forwarded this info about electronic books to the daughter of my co-author. Great idea, she said. What's it gonna cost? And imagine I would hear from you again, just a day after the 6th anniversary of Mom's death, she said ...
Lila wanted the book printed before she died. Heck, she wanted it on the silverscreen. Who knows. Maybe she's sweet-talking God right now, from up there on high.
She always was hard to say no to.
Bless your heart, Lila. We might get that book done for you, after all.
I got an e-mail about someone from my hometown who's written a book and is offering it in an electronic format. Not too significant, other than it's the perfect way to offer people the manuscript I've been working on for more than a decade.
It works like this: Send them the first two chapters for free, then if they're intrigued enough they can send the author 10 bucks to receive the rest of the book as a PDF through their e-mail.
WOW! Perfect for my triple murder mystery, since my friends and people who live where this happened in the 1920s (Meriden, Kansas) have been eager to read it, and I have no budget for printing. Nor the time or energy to keep querying publishers.
We did have a few highlights along the way. Perhaps some of that will happen again. A guy from Paramount called me, in my home, to see if the book was in a screenplay format. It wasn't. But I wrote it that way. Sent it to a guy my sister knows at William Morris Agency in Nashville. It only received lukewarm coverage (review).
Also received a personal letter from someone at Miramax saying it was an interesting story, and wished me good luck along the way.
Life has gotten in the way. A life-changing, deep despair that altered me forever got in the way. So did a divorce. So did raising two wonderful boys, working full time, driving back and forth to work an hour or more a day, and taking on a second job.
So I forwarded this info about electronic books to the daughter of my co-author. Great idea, she said. What's it gonna cost? And imagine I would hear from you again, just a day after the 6th anniversary of Mom's death, she said ...
Lila wanted the book printed before she died. Heck, she wanted it on the silverscreen. Who knows. Maybe she's sweet-talking God right now, from up there on high.
She always was hard to say no to.
Bless your heart, Lila. We might get that book done for you, after all.
Friday, October 08, 2004
An e-mail to Real Live Preacher
The following is an e-mail I sent off to a fellow blogger who writes authentically about faith and being in the ministry. Some would say he's a bit sacreligious. I just like to say that he's real. His most recent post shows exactly this... and I admire him for showing all his bumps and bruises.
In fact, he calls his blog Real Live Preacher. Here's where you can find his blog. I'm including this because it's the reason I started writing my own blog.
http://blogs.salon.com/0001772/stories/
Hi Gordon,
I started reading your blog a few months ago after reading in an
Episcopalian church bulletin that a man there found it particularly good
reading. Now I'm not Episcopalian, I'm a Methodist... who often found
comfort in this little E. church in my hometown while struggling and trying
to find a God who had hidden His face from me. The liturgy and kneeling
and Communion was soothing...
What I wanted to say about your recent post is, someone recently said
(I think it was Max Lucado during an all-day event) that prayer doesn't
depend on us, how we convey it, if we intend for it to be prayer... it
is the deep longing and feeling that originates inside our hearts and
is sent by the Holy Spirit on high to our Father.
As someone who is exploring how I can combine ministry work with
writing, I admire you for being so open and honest about your misgivings,
frustrations and disappointments... so refreshing in a world where we
often pretend everything is ok because we're obviously not worshiping
correctly if it's not (tongue in cheek).
My travails and wandering in the desert have led me back to the
epiphany that God is God, and nothing I do in this life can change that.
Perhaps He might choose to hide His face from me, but you know what? That
doesn't change his omnipresence... He is here, will be here, was here,
ad nauseum.
Peace, brother.
Kim Benson
In fact, he calls his blog Real Live Preacher. Here's where you can find his blog. I'm including this because it's the reason I started writing my own blog.
http://blogs.salon.com/0001772/stories/
Hi Gordon,
I started reading your blog a few months ago after reading in an
Episcopalian church bulletin that a man there found it particularly good
reading. Now I'm not Episcopalian, I'm a Methodist... who often found
comfort in this little E. church in my hometown while struggling and trying
to find a God who had hidden His face from me. The liturgy and kneeling
and Communion was soothing...
What I wanted to say about your recent post is, someone recently said
(I think it was Max Lucado during an all-day event) that prayer doesn't
depend on us, how we convey it, if we intend for it to be prayer... it
is the deep longing and feeling that originates inside our hearts and
is sent by the Holy Spirit on high to our Father.
As someone who is exploring how I can combine ministry work with
writing, I admire you for being so open and honest about your misgivings,
frustrations and disappointments... so refreshing in a world where we
often pretend everything is ok because we're obviously not worshiping
correctly if it's not (tongue in cheek).
My travails and wandering in the desert have led me back to the
epiphany that God is God, and nothing I do in this life can change that.
Perhaps He might choose to hide His face from me, but you know what? That
doesn't change his omnipresence... He is here, will be here, was here,
ad nauseum.
Peace, brother.
Kim Benson
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