WELCOME TO THE DARK SIDE

On January 6th 2013, I sent my book (The Dark Side of Winter) off to my agent. His request for my manuscript was based on the book description that I have posted below (along with the first three chapters). For a peek inside my slightly altered imagination, please read. If you have a need to know more, I may post portions of the prologue over the coming weeks. I welcome your comments.

Robert Fairmont is a preacher. And he knows his place. Preachers preach, and that imaginary line between church and state—preachers just don’t cross it. Every Sunday morning his growing congregation of 7000 hang on his every word; and that is enough . . . or is it?
Bob seems happy in his “no surprises, predictable life” . . . until his wife Kathy hears from God? Seven times in two weeks, the same dream; it was God . . . and she wasn’t the only one.
“Salt and light, Bob, He wants us to be salt and light; are we?”
Bob knows the Government has overreached into the affairs of the Church. That imaginary line, drawn in the sand—is Bob willing to cross it?
After almost thirty-two years of marriage Bob knows Kathy is not given to dreams; he has no reason to doubt her. Maybe it’s time to reclaim the stolen pieces of the American dream; maybe it’s time to ‘Take America Back’.

Fast forward four years and eight months.
From the bedroom of an old farmhouse in the middle of “nowhere Minnesota”, Bob stares out the window into the dark December night; the winter snow storm is a perfect match to his desperate situation. He has crossed that line and is now on the run and under investigation for tax fraud, possible un-American activities, and the mysterious death of his wife of 36-years. He pins all his hope on Zak; the one person who can get him his life back or at least what’s left of it. Victor wants him dead and he’s not far behind. Bob must get back to Seattle to meet Zak and clear his name, or die trying.
Bob is forced to reach deep inside his soul and confront his faith: Is God in control, will he trust him no matter the outcome? In this high stakes game of “spiritual warfare” the stage has been set and all the players are in place. Only one question remains—who will win?

There are 365 new beginnings in every year of my life. Each morning I wake up with a choice. Come to think of it, you do too. The question (or challenge) is: What do I—what do you—choose to do with that precious gift of 24 hours.

The past is a score card for me to look at and hopefully learn from, and the future is a blank page waiting for me to compose the next chapter of my life; a daunting reality if I think too long and hard on it; but it is in fact—reality.

I tend to measure my existence in yearly increments; it seems manageable and less overwhelming that way. I am by nature an optimist, so when I view life in retrospect I try not to allow failures of the past to diminish my successes as I move forward into the New Year; after all, if God’s in charge, I have nothing to lose.

This year I choose to count my blessings. Whether I am greeted with clouds or sunshine, each morning is a gift and I will embrace it with a passion to change my world for good. And I am not alone. My greatest blessing is Karen; my friend, my wife, and my partner on this wonderful adventure I call life.

This year I choose to listen more intentionally for the voice of God. In the quiet stillness of my soul I want to hear him speak to me. He has called me to write; I want it to be his words—His truth; anything less would be worthless banter.

This year I choose to challenge myself to become a great writer with a commitment to learning from those who are great writers, and by engaging the craft with a consistent schedule of daily writing. It would seem that the more I write the better I become at telling stories.

This year I choose to love more and live more like Jesus.

This year I choose to pray more and care more for others than I do for myself; starting with my wife, my children and my grandchildren. And I choose to give God credit for all the successes on this path He has chosen for me.

I am 13 days into my new year, so I must assume you are too. I have given just a few thoughts as to what I will do with mine. So if I may, let me leave you with a question: What will you do with the 365 days that you have been given?

If you have not yet thought much about it, please do, and then get back to me; I would really like to know. Let’s make 2013 the best year ever.

Life is short—don’t miss the moments.

It’s a week before Christmas and all I can say,
It’s gonna feel good to just get away;
From the work and the bills and the stresses of life,
To make memories with family and spend time with the Wife.

I love Christmas—the music, the lights, the trees, the decorations—I love all of it. I even like Santa. I see the wonder of the season captured in the wide-eyed innocence of a child’s face and long to be that child again. Life seemed simpler then . . . maybe because I choose to remember it that way.

We can make it simpler—for a time—if we choose. It’s as easy as closing our eyes and ears to the noise around us, long enough to open our hearts to the voice inside us . . . the voice of hope, and peace, and comfort . . . the voice of Jesus; after all, he is the first gift of Christmas.

Maybe that’s why I love this time of year. It’s not because of Santa. He may be plump and jolly, but he can’t compare with that tiny perfect child, sleeping in a feed trough in a lonely stable in Bethlehem. Who could have known that the beautiful child, born that first Christmas day, would soon die a cruel and bloodied death on a cross made of wood . . . but that is why He came.

So this Christmas I will love my Wife, my Children and my Grandchildren as we make memories to last a lifetime. I will laugh with friends and eat too much; but most of all I will put “the first gift of Christmas” at the center of everything I do; and hope that all who read this strive to do the same.

Happy birthday Jesus.

Christmas is my favorite time of year and my sleepy coastal town of Seaside Oregon has its own unique Holiday flavor.

It all begins Thanksgiving weekend with the myriad of neon fish swimming in a sea of festive colored lights wired into a banner stretching from side to side high above Main Street as lighted starfish lend a soft amber glow to fresh evergreen wreaths mounted on each lamp post lining Broadway Avenue.
Sprinkle in the familiar sound of Bing Crosby singing White Christmas, and children riding their favorite horse (or reindeer) on the merry-go-round at the Carousel Mall; add to that the thirty foot Christmas tree high atop the Shiloh Inn at the corner of Broadway and the Promenade, (a beacon to those lonely fishermen who might not be home for Christmas).

So, what makes Christmas in Seaside special?
It isn’t snow; it is the soft mist of a winter rain touching the wonder and excitement of a child’s face, gazing at treasures through windows of quaint little shops. It isn’t trees covered in white along the boulevard; it is the winter roar of waves, at high tide, rolling a relentless assault against the sand along the Promenade as those brave enough to venture out pull their collars up and lean into the wind. It isn’t the smell of winter pines along a mountain road; it is the smell of fresh salt air mingled with the squawk of seagulls flying overhead. It isn’t sunshine through broken clouds on an ice cold morning; it is Tillamook Head shrouded in a foggy mist against a gray black sky while the old lighthouse, on a rock six miles out, conjures up images of a time long since passed.

As I look through my balcony window at my sleepy little coastal town, set against the backdrop of the mighty Pacific Ocean, I offer a melancholy smile and thank God for all the blessings I don’t deserve.
I love Christmas time . . . in Seaside.

HEALING GRACE

Carolyn knew the drill, she had been down this road before. The room number was different, but when she closed her eyes it was the same: the sounds, the smells—hospital smells—and the feel of sterile sheets enfolding her like a cocoon . . . and those machines with their annoying bleeps. But the staff at St Vincent’s would arrive soon to wheel her down to surgery.
It felt familiar in her hand, though most times she wore it securely around her neck. She didn’t need it but she liked it. She squeezed the cross between her fingers. Carolyn knew she couldn’t take it with her, but it would be here when she woke up, Mitzi would make sure of that.
“How are you doing Momma?” Mitzi wiped her Mom’s forehead with the cloth.
“Oh sweetheart I’m fine.” Carolyn squeezed her daughter’s hand. “It’s not like I haven’t done this before.”
The only thing that wasn’t fine was the silly gown they made her wear. Carolyn wasn’t sure why she felt so at peace—but she was. It had been two years since her first encounter with the “C” word. Most would consider that a death sentence, after all, six of her siblings had already succumbed to one form of cancer or another. Not Carolyn, she had too much to do . . . death was not an option. Besides, that little chunk of lung tissue . . . she hadn’t missed it.

“Hello Carolyn.” His voice was just above a whisper.
Carolyn opened her eyes. “Doctor?”
“Yes, it’s me and it’s almost time. I have a few things to go over with you before surgery; I’ll give you a minute to clear your head.”
“Thank you, I must have fallen asleep . . . Where is Mitzi?”
“Your daughter?”
“Yes—what time is it?”
“She went to get a cup of coffee and we have about fifteen minutes and . . . “Dr. Broad looked at his watch, “it is 10:45 a. m.”
“Where is Dr. Johnson?”
“Preparing for surgery.” Dr. Broad pulled a chair alongside the bed and sat down. “So, you are a Christian?”
“Yes,” Carolyn raised a curious eyebrow. “How did you know?”
He smiled. “The cross, in your hand, it was a guess. Would you like me to put it in the drawer for when you wake up?”
“Yes, thank you.”
With the utmost of care Dr. Broad placed it in the drawer, then turned to Carolyn. “I hope you won’t mind me asking, but,” he cleared his throat, “would you like to pray the Lord’s Prayer with me before listening to all my boring instructions?”
Stage I breast cancer was serious business and on the morning of August 10th when Dr. Johnson sat down with Carolyn to share the unwanted news, Carolyn remembered her silent prayer to God for His will to be done.
Carolyn sat up tall with a smile that reached across her face. “Yes, please, I would like that very much.”
He returned the smile then gently cradled her hand in his. “Our Father, who art in Heaven; hollowed be Thy name; Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done . . .”
The words spiraled upward, filling the room with the glory of God—they found themselves lost in His presence.

The wheels of the stainless steel gurney shimmied down the corridor as the men in white guided it through the two sets of double doors into the operating room. Carolyn’s eyes darted around the room. It felt like a repair shop for broken humans, needing to be fixed and it was her turn. She grabbed for a breath and fidgeted on the two inch thick mattress.
“Ready . . . one, two three—”
The transfer was smooth from the gurney to the table. She could feel the cold steel under her. Carolyn grabbed a panicked breath . . . then another. Machines whirred and bleeped; the room began a slow spin; tubes dangled from bags filled with liquid; voices mingled . . . she couldn’t breathe—
“Hello Carolyn.” The surgical mask couldn’t hide Dr. Johnson’s reassuring smile. “I would like to pray with you before we start, would that be alright?”
Carolyn caught a breath. “Oh yes, please.”
“Remember Carolyn, God is the surgeon; I am just his willing hands.”
Her prayer was like the reassuring fragrance from the breath of God.

Carolyn had chosen him, he was the best. She watched Dr. Broad checking the charts, adjusting the knobs, checking the tanks, and that mask . . . .
“How’s the fit? . . . okay? . . . good—now count backwards from twenty . . . when you wake up you’ll be in your room.
“Amazing grace how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me . . .”
A soft voice carried the words of Carolyn’s favorite song; she smiled; then there were two . . . Carolyn joined in as number three . . .
“I once was lost but now I’m found, was blind but now I see . . .”
then four, five, then six . . . until the whole surgical team was singing in a circle around her . . .
“Twas grace that taught my heart to fear . . .”
Voices faded as piercing white light filled the space. All fear was gone; Carolyn was at peace . . .

“Hi Momma.”
Her eyes blinked against the light and her head swam in a fog of half consciousness. “Mitzi?”
“It’s me. You are in recovery Momma; everything went great. I love you . . . Ron is here.”
Carolyn felt the gentle squeeze of his hand. “Hi, remember me? You can’t get rid of me that easy.” He said.
Her brain was telling her she was in the hospital and the guy holding her hand was her husband. Aside from that, the calming presence of Jesus was all the information she was getting. Maybe that’s all she needed.
“Hello Carolyn.” Dr. Johnson’s face came into focus. She was so young to be so gifted. Carolyn had chosen well; this was the second time she had saved her life. “We got it all; you’re going to be fine.”
Carolyn took a breath and felt the pain in her chest. It would all heal; she knew that—God still had work for her to do. She moved her right hand carefully along the edge of the bandage nestled under the protective layer of her hospital gown, her index finger hooking on the fragile chain with the cross, draped around her neck. Her eyes welled up. “Mitzi . . . who—”
“Dr. Broad brought it from your room; he thought you’d want to have it now.”
Dr. Johnson sniffed back tears. “I’ll give you some time, but when you’re ready, you have a lot of friends waiting to see how God answered their prayers.” She was halfway to the door before turning to say, “I’ll check on you in a bit.”

SIX WEEKS LATER

Dr. Johnson’s office looked the same, but today’s visit would be different from the last one. Carolyn was dressed for fall as she thumbed through the latest copy of Home and Garden. She took a deeper breath and flinched a little; almost back to normal, she thought. God’s pallet of autumn colors was on full display through the window behind the desk. It was a good day.
“Hello Carolyn, what brings you here today?” Her smile was warm and genuine.
“Dr. Johnson, I know our appointment isn’t ‘til next week, but I have a favor to ask.”
“Please, call me Nathalie.” She sat on the edge of her desk. “So, what is this favor you want to ask me?”
“Nathalie,” Carolyn hesitated. “Amazing Grace . . . before my surgery . . . I didn’t get to sing the second verse. I’m here to finish it.”
Nathalie couldn’t hide the giggle as she moved to look out the window.
“What’s so funny?”
Still smiling, with arms lightly crossed at her waist, she looked at Carolyn and said, “You were out like a light . . . so we finished the second and third verse without you.”
“Well, how about the last verse . . . can we sing the last one?”
Nathalie sat back down on the edge of the desk. “Whatever my favorite patient wants; we can sing them all if you like.”
“One would be fine. The last one is my favorite.”
The words floated up as a duet to God; first in a circle around the room, then out the window joining the brightly colored leaves in a tribute to the Creator of the universe.
“When we’ve been there ten thousand years, bright shining as the sun; we’ve no less days to sing His praise, than when we’d first begun.”

Words of Hope

Words are powerful.
They can build up or they can tear down; either way they are life changing.
God has called me to write—to write words that make people think; about God, about life; words that can move hearts toward the Creator of the universe.
If you are a writer and a Christian, you also have been called for this purpose; for what other reason would we write?

Several weeks ago a friend, who I had not seen for a while, walked into my favorite Saturday writing hangout (Bagels by the Sea). I said Hi, and she came over. I said I had been missing her; that’s when she told me the story of where she had been. It was a story filled with faith, grace, and God’s healing power; a story that needed to be written.

I am excited yet humbled. As I pen these few words, her story has been written—by me. It is a story of hope and help for those facing life’s adversities. For so many the “C” word (cancer) is like a death sentence. It doesn’t have to be. If we are in Christ, nothing is impossible.

I am posting the story above so that those that read it can be blessed by it.

“I am a writer”

They say that if you repeat something often enough you come to believe it. So at the end of every post those four words shall be my statement of purpose.

“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under Heaven.” Ecclesiastes 3:1.

Have you ever felt like you were meant to do something, but you waited too long, and you missed it? Welcome to my world. I was twenty, in college. Just for fun I decided to take a creative writing class. I was studying to be an architect, but why not; seemed like an easy credit. And at my age I liked easy—so write I did. Surprise; writing seemed so natural and I was enjoying it. My instructor suggested I explore, at a deeper level, this craft of writing. Not me, I was going to be an architect.

Forty-two years later, here I am, writing books; knowing it is what I have been called to do. So, did I wait too long, did I miss it?

No!

Passion, fueled by four decades of ‘real life experiences’, has added richness and depth to the words I write. This is my season, perfectly ordered by God.

Each one’s life consists of seasons; blocks of time allotted by God. And we are called to bring meaningful purpose to those seasons of our lives. So, if you detect a pulse, no matter how faint; good news, you have not ‘missed it’. This is your time; pursue your calling, pursue your passion.

Now back to me.

My wife Karen and I live in a place we love; Seaside Oregon; and I am pursuing my passion. I am in final edit of my first full length suspense novel (The Dark Side of Winter) and about to embark on my next book (Shades of Yellow; Tainted White). This summer I sold my first inspirational short story and I continue to write short stories as a fun exercise to improve my writing. Life is good.

The books in my head are screaming to get out. So, as the rainy season on the Oregon Coast fuels the melancholy side of my personality, I will sit in my room with a view and write.

I am a writer.

When I began my writing journey, (even though I cannot put an exact date to the process) the first question that came to my mind was why. But yet I was compelled to write. Was I really a writer? For the first twelve years of my journey, that question nagged me.

Please indulge me for a time; I will address my opening comment. But first let me take you back to my beginnings. From a very early age I recognized that God had placed within me a unique ability to impact my world; not by eloquent speech that can move the masses; nor by great organizational skills; or through deep rational thought bordering on scientific genius. First he placed a passion for life at the very core of my soul, and second, he blessed me with a creative mind with a love for the arts.

I am an artist, a singer, an actor, a master woodcrafter, and now a writer. But most importantly I am a lover of Jesus; He is the centering point of all I do.

So, back to the question: was I really a writer? The answer is yes, even though I didn’t know it yet. God, you see, chooses unusual ways to answer life’s nagging questions; He uses people. For me, Andy Still was one such person, who at church on a Sunday morning, (after reading a script for a play I had written) challenged me to go deeper with my writing; to try and reach the soul rather than just the mind. I went home, and from that conversation I began to write my first book; I had never done anything like this; had no idea what I was doing . . . but I did it anyway. I mean, how hard could it be? Well, It didn’t take me long to realize I was in over my head; I put it on the shelf. So, was I a writer? I wasn’t convinced, but my journey had begun.

I, by nature, am a procrastinator. I was going to finish that book; after all I had a bunch of other books in my head needing to be written; but “later” was always an option, and life goes on. Have you ever noticed how God has a way of getting your attention?

August 2010. I remember it like it was yesterday. For the first time in thirty-five years, I was out of work. I found myself in “God’s desert place of learning.” I had been there before (countless times) and was pretty sure of the lesson I was to learn. In that desert place the still small voice of God whispered a clear message to my heart: “You are a writer–so write.”

I am convinced that the journey of a million thoughts begins with one word; that first word being the hardest. I am happy to say that I am well on the road of my journey, with no looking back; and I am not alone.

I am a writer–so I will write.

She was dead. The last hope to discover his past was buried forever, along with his 89 year old mother. Her memory had faded long before she died, leaving too many questions, and the handful of old black and white photographs did little to tell the story. But why the obsession to know? What difference could it make? For him the answer was simple: “I can’t really know who I am if I don’t know where I come from.” His wife knew better; it went deeper than that.

The U.S. Goverment internment camps of World War II had ravaged the lives and history of many Japanese-Americans. So, was it too late; was his prayer in vain? Or was there someone out there, somewhere, who held the answers to his questions?

With one mysterious phone call and five simple words: “You don’t know me, but . . .”, his journey had begun.

Saturday, October 13th 2012, OCW Writer’s Conference, Portland Oregon; my favorite OCW venue. Colleen Coble was great; so accessible and willing to share her wisdom and experience, helping new writers like myself fulfull our calling to reach the world for Jesus, one reader at a time. My passion is just that; if not, what is the purpose in doing what we do? That is the very purpose for our existence . . . to leave the world a better place than the way we found it, one word at a time.

There is so much that can distract us from telling our stories . . . but we must persevere. So as the wind and the rain begin their yearly assault against the window of my little upstairs sanctuary, I will cozy up to my cup of coffee, settle into my comfy chair and engage the keyboard of my laptop and write.

Visit Colleen: www:colleencoble.com