What's another great attribute about being a writer? You have a circle of friends that love to write! Literally, it is amazing how many of my friends, upon being asked what they like to do in their free time, have answered "I like to read and write."
But the most serious writer I have ever met is my friend Monica. She is a fantasy fanatic, but she also loves to read myths and is completely in love with Ancient Egypt. How did these two San Antonian writers meet and where? Hours south of where we live. The exact place? Laredo, a city that is so close to Mexico that I saw the country with my own to eyes during that trip!
We were both there to watch our brothers (who were teammates) play hockey for the San Antonio Diablos. I got to talk to her after the game.
That very night, her family asked me and Brant if they could take us to dine at a former team member's house. We agreed to go. During the ride over there, I asked Monica what she liked to do. Lo and behold, she loved to write fantasy!
Immediately excited, I blurted out, "Me too!"
Thus, the conversation veered off in the direction of characters and plot lines, and there it remained for the rest of the night. Needless to say, I was thrilled to have a friend who adored the art just as much as I did.
The next morning at breakfast in the hotel, we talked about collaborating (co-authoring) a book. And, although it took a sleepover at her house and many hours to figure out what our book was going to be about, we finally agreed.
Surprisingly, we drew the story out of two old legends. One was the long ago Halloween practice where a person would be sacrificed to keep the evil spirits away (I'm not entirely sure they really did that, but that was one of the springboards for our idea). The other was from a Mexican legend about a woman who had lost her children. The latter was used to scare children into staying indoors after dark.
The results? A plot line where a young fairy named Isleen discovers that young fairies are vanishing, but not without undergoing symptoms that are similar to all the rest of the vanishing young ones. Will Isleen find the truth and be able to protect herself from those dreaded symptoms? Then, she finds an oracle stone with a prophecy ethched into it; a prophecy that speaks of her.
Here is an excerpt from our book The Oracle Prophecy:
As the stars illuminated the moonless night, Isleen slipped beneath the rough covers that shunned the cold's biting chill. The pillow was far from comfortable, but the girl paid it no heed.
The wind whistled through the open window. The stars were shrouded briefly by a cloud and the world immersed into an eerie blackness. Then the cloud shifted and the stars peaked out timidly from behind their former barrier.
But all of this mattered little to Isleen. Her ears were open, catching every little sound that was made in the next room.
A door was quietly closed. She could hear shuffling, then a few creaks as her mother laid upon the overused bed whose faded wood had seen much better days.
The girl lay heaving silently, waiting until she was certain that Merre would be resting. Then, she swung her feet over the side of the bed and submerged them into her shoes. Having left her dress on, she pulled her door ajar and peered out cautiously.
Stealing acorss to the cabinets, she grabbed a slice of bread just in case the journey gave her the reason for a hasty bite, along with the potatoes. Pulling her ragged shawl from the peg near the main entrance, she thrust it over her shoulders and yanked the door open.
The wind's chilling cold whipped about her suddenly, playing with her ragged skirt and piercing her thin clothing. She clutched the shawl to her as her hair slapped her face. She gave the stable a longing glance, wishing that taking a horse wouldn't make any noise at all.
Suddenly, she found her feet pounding upon the trodden path that meandered from their humble home and into the hills that guarded it. Glancing up at the stars, she attempted to determine the time. Midnight was only a few hours off, and the village was still many miles away.
Standing on the last hill, she peered down, searching for the village that concealed itself in the dark. Her feet ached from the sheer beating they had received. A nervous feeling began to inhabit her, escalating itself to a sickening dread, as if she was getting herself into something she didn't want to. Shaking herself, she darted down the hill, meeting her fate head on, her face sullen and jaw set firm.
As she neared the village, she slowed a bit so as not to arouse the city. It took some time in the dark, but she eventually recognized the spot that she had often set up shop. Leaning her back against a building, she waited. And waited.
A thump sounded from a distance, its lone rhythm announcing that it was steadily approaching. Isleen drew in her breath, trying to prepare for the inevitable.
A voice from beside her caused her to start. "Are you there, young one? Did you bring me the potatoes I asked for?"
The fairy forced her voice not to quiver. "I am here. And so are the potatoes."
An aged hand was extended to her. Isleen drew a potato from the bag that dangled from her shoulder and placed it into the old one's hand.
The scrutinizing fingers inspected it, as they had done the others. Slowly, the stranger spoke, "Yes. These are indeed fine potatoes. They are a just payment. Follow me now."
Using her staff as an aid, she trotted off at a surprising speed for one of her age and condition. Isleen found herself struggling to keep up. The woman, even with her shortcoming of no sight, seemed to know exactly where she was going.
The village gave way to hills. The hills to valleys. The valleys to marshes. And it was in one of these damp areas that they finally descended the last hill. Their feet met the mud, and they sloshed around in it for many minutes.
Suddenly, as if from out of nowhere, the woman drew aside a curtain and held it open. Isleen stepped in. Then, the ancient one banished the star's brilliant glow by dropping the curtain back over the opening. After some shuffling and indistinguishable words from the lips of the blind one, the light of a fire sprang up upon the hearth, revealing the woman stooped over it.
Isleen realized that they were in a tiny grass hut; the walls being lined with nothing other than her hostess's few belongings. But it was not a poorly constructed shelter, either, for one glance told the newcomer of the lovingness of which the hands had woven the extensive strands of grass together.
"You are quite skilled for being blind," she remarked.
"Never say that again! Never!"
"Why not?"
"Because blindness is not a disibility. Instead, it gives one the ability to sharpen their other senses, and to know that the things of this life are fleeting, so we must enjoy them to their fullest. It may disable the weaker ones who yearn for pity, but to those who are willing to work, it can be a rich lesson in leading an alert and satisfied life. My name is Oglanda."
"Isleen."
"Ah, Isleen," Oglanda said. "Your name means Dream or Vision. Did you know that?"
"No. You seem to know a great many things."
The woman sighed. "Having many years behind you isn't all bad, either. If you spend your time wisely, it can greatly aid your knowledge of times and cultures. Never waste a minute. The tea is ready. Would you like some?"
"Sure."
Filling two cups, Oglanda kept one for herself and handed the other to Isleen. The familiar aroma settled the remainder of the guest's nerves and almost made her drowsy. She stirred the drink absently. "What do you have to tell me about your story Oglanda?"
Setting aside her tea, the ancient one proceeded thoughtfully. "That is perhaps the darkest part of my memory. The girl I spoke of was my daughter, but back then we didn't live here. Nay, she was raised in the hills that you now live in. I can tell by your accent. As I said, she went away to school. She was single, and no one had even been interested in her until she met a young man in her class. I believe that he was in love with her, and I liked him very much. But she was currently trying to win over another young man, one I knew that she could never love. She didn't succeed. Eventually, she got depressed. One day, I received a letter from the school sumoning me immediately, for she had suddenly gone pale and became very ill. By the time I arrived, they said that she had vanished. I moved here, for the memories in that house were too painful. I never heard of her again."
Isleen found herself pouring out Kai's story, which she had found so similar to the one Oglanda had given her. Even her host was astonished by their similarities.
"I'm going to find him. I must find him." Isleen was surprised at her sudden decision.
"That you should. But there may be more to this. These situations are too much alike to be coincidences. Somebody with power may be behind them. Be careful, and fell free to ask me for anything."
Isleen rose. "Thank you. But my mother will worry if I'm not home beofre she awakes. I must go."
Oglanda didn't speak. She only watched her guest shove the curtain aside, allowing a stream of starlight to enter momentarily. Then, she turned away, feeling hope's warm rays fill her cold body.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Sweet Chariot Excerpt
The following is my latest scene from Sweet Chariot:
Emily's ears caught the voices almost as soon as she stepped outside to gather firewood. She stopped, listening as they steadily approached.
Thinking swiftly, she ran around the house and pressed herself against the wall. She inhaled deep, silent breaths as she waited. Apprehensiveness crept into her and filled her inner being with nervous terror until she shook with it and the humid air drew perspiration from her skin.
Finally, two figures emerged; a young lady and her father. A lantern was in the man's hand.
Anne's voice rang clear throughout the night. "Oh, Father, I am quite weary. Can we not sit down under that tree and talk of this problem?"
"Of course, Anne dearest."
Mr. and Miss Jackson elapsed into silence as they turned in Emily's direction. Their slow, even strides eventually brought them to the tree which stood between Emily's home and her neighbors'. Sitting with her back to the trunk, Anne continued the conversation. "Ah, that is much better. Now, I heard that Sarah mention God to you. Do you think she knows of Him?"
"Doubtless, my dear, doubtless. But I haven't the faintest clue to who could have told her about Him."
"I still suspect that it is all the cause of the cholera pandemic. We should have sold them all, as I said."
"That is something that I simply must deny you of, Anne. I am sorry."
"Seeing as that is not your course of action, than what is?"
Emily heard him sigh, then begin slowly. "I have conferred over this matter with your mother. Indeed, that was the very reason I have aked you to accompany me upon this walk; to relay to you our plan and ask your opinion. We are ordering that every slave and overseer who hears the Bible being referred to in any form to immediately report to us. I shall then have the offender flogged and sold. There shall be no mercy."
From her tone of voice, Emily could tell that Anne was opening her pocket mirror and inspecting her curls. "Hmm, yes. That is a fairly reasonable plan. It should be applicable as well as mightily effective. It is a great alternative to my plan, and, I must admit, that even I could not have thought of something better."
Emily could listen no longer. Silently, she darted around the house and into the forest.
Feet running swiftly, she ran until she came upon the little cememtery, whose gravestones seemed to have sprung up overnight. Her eyes meandered from one stone to the next. She found herself wandering among them, each name etched into the past bringing up an image of the sick one whom she had watched slip into death's cold grip in her attempt to tell them about Jesus. She knew all too well that the Jacksons meant what they said.
"Oh, God, what am I to do?" she whispered, rubbing her hand affectionately upon the rough edge of one of the stones.
A breeze rippled her hair as she roved aisle upon aisle of graves. The thought of running away danced in her head, but it was countered by a feeling in her heart that she was not done here, that something else was coming.
She lingered by Rosa's grave. The deceased child's words rang in her ears. "I done so much bad. Dere's so much dat I need to say 'sorry' for, an' now I ain't ne'er gonna have dat chance!"
Emily sat, her legs tucked beneath her. Tears formed in the back of her eyes as she stared at the crude letters engraved into the stone. She absently scooped up a fistful of dirt and allowed it to filter through her fingers. God's Voice resonated through her head and heart.
You must not give in now, My child. You must stay strong, for your greatest challenge lies still ahead of you, one that , if rightly performed, will leave an indelible mark on your plantation. Look yonder, by Rosa's grave. What do you see?
Emily bent forward and grasped the stem of a withering rose that she had cast upon the girl's grave only a week before. She answered God mentally as she fingered it. A rose. It's a rose, but it's withered.
But, if properly cared for, would it live?
Yes.
Then keep it. Nurture and care for it. In life, there will be times that you will wonder if I still love you. In your mind, it will be just as if My love has withered. But, if you cling to Me, you will discover that My love never dies, and can be lovelier than that rose when it blooms. Keep it as a reminder for when times get harsh.
Emily nodded, sweeping away the tears with the back of her hand. She whispered, "Yes, God. Thank You."
She rose. Picking up any tinder she found along the way, she made her way back to her lowly abode, the precious rose riding in between her left hand and the pile of wood.
Emily's ears caught the voices almost as soon as she stepped outside to gather firewood. She stopped, listening as they steadily approached.
Thinking swiftly, she ran around the house and pressed herself against the wall. She inhaled deep, silent breaths as she waited. Apprehensiveness crept into her and filled her inner being with nervous terror until she shook with it and the humid air drew perspiration from her skin.
Finally, two figures emerged; a young lady and her father. A lantern was in the man's hand.
Anne's voice rang clear throughout the night. "Oh, Father, I am quite weary. Can we not sit down under that tree and talk of this problem?"
"Of course, Anne dearest."
Mr. and Miss Jackson elapsed into silence as they turned in Emily's direction. Their slow, even strides eventually brought them to the tree which stood between Emily's home and her neighbors'. Sitting with her back to the trunk, Anne continued the conversation. "Ah, that is much better. Now, I heard that Sarah mention God to you. Do you think she knows of Him?"
"Doubtless, my dear, doubtless. But I haven't the faintest clue to who could have told her about Him."
"I still suspect that it is all the cause of the cholera pandemic. We should have sold them all, as I said."
"That is something that I simply must deny you of, Anne. I am sorry."
"Seeing as that is not your course of action, than what is?"
Emily heard him sigh, then begin slowly. "I have conferred over this matter with your mother. Indeed, that was the very reason I have aked you to accompany me upon this walk; to relay to you our plan and ask your opinion. We are ordering that every slave and overseer who hears the Bible being referred to in any form to immediately report to us. I shall then have the offender flogged and sold. There shall be no mercy."
From her tone of voice, Emily could tell that Anne was opening her pocket mirror and inspecting her curls. "Hmm, yes. That is a fairly reasonable plan. It should be applicable as well as mightily effective. It is a great alternative to my plan, and, I must admit, that even I could not have thought of something better."
Emily could listen no longer. Silently, she darted around the house and into the forest.
Feet running swiftly, she ran until she came upon the little cememtery, whose gravestones seemed to have sprung up overnight. Her eyes meandered from one stone to the next. She found herself wandering among them, each name etched into the past bringing up an image of the sick one whom she had watched slip into death's cold grip in her attempt to tell them about Jesus. She knew all too well that the Jacksons meant what they said.
"Oh, God, what am I to do?" she whispered, rubbing her hand affectionately upon the rough edge of one of the stones.
A breeze rippled her hair as she roved aisle upon aisle of graves. The thought of running away danced in her head, but it was countered by a feeling in her heart that she was not done here, that something else was coming.
She lingered by Rosa's grave. The deceased child's words rang in her ears. "I done so much bad. Dere's so much dat I need to say 'sorry' for, an' now I ain't ne'er gonna have dat chance!"
Emily sat, her legs tucked beneath her. Tears formed in the back of her eyes as she stared at the crude letters engraved into the stone. She absently scooped up a fistful of dirt and allowed it to filter through her fingers. God's Voice resonated through her head and heart.
You must not give in now, My child. You must stay strong, for your greatest challenge lies still ahead of you, one that , if rightly performed, will leave an indelible mark on your plantation. Look yonder, by Rosa's grave. What do you see?
Emily bent forward and grasped the stem of a withering rose that she had cast upon the girl's grave only a week before. She answered God mentally as she fingered it. A rose. It's a rose, but it's withered.
But, if properly cared for, would it live?
Yes.
Then keep it. Nurture and care for it. In life, there will be times that you will wonder if I still love you. In your mind, it will be just as if My love has withered. But, if you cling to Me, you will discover that My love never dies, and can be lovelier than that rose when it blooms. Keep it as a reminder for when times get harsh.
Emily nodded, sweeping away the tears with the back of her hand. She whispered, "Yes, God. Thank You."
She rose. Picking up any tinder she found along the way, she made her way back to her lowly abode, the precious rose riding in between her left hand and the pile of wood.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Sweet Chariot- a sneak peak into the makings of it
A few of you have read my major work-in-progress (and when I mean major, I mean it will be finished before anything else), Sweet Chariot. It takes place during one of the most forgotten wars in American history, the War of 1812. Moreover, I don't settle for a book, I try for novels, which can be anywhere from 50,000-100,000 words, or approximately 400-600 pages (normal pages, not typed). A lofty goal, but I was excited and ready to reach for the stars.
The absolute first step for me is planning. I simply must plan everything from A-Z or I won't be able function. Yes, half of these ideas might not make it to the final draft, but at least I have a springboard.
Okay, so I don't really go from A to B and so on. Usually, I already know what A and Z are going to be, I just have to fill in the blanks. On a historical work such as Sweet Chariot I must find ways to incorporate history into it. Otherwise, this time period may not be needed.
After I have planned, I usually do one of two things. 1, I go ahead and begin writing (although technically I'm not supposed to), or 2, I do a character analysis. The latter is more challenging than it sounds. With every story, there is at least one character. It's the writer's job to make him imperfect and believable. By imperfect I mean those little likes and dislikes that make each and every one of us unique. Does he have a favorite food? What does she think about her nation going to war? I write all of these things down.
In Sweet Chariot, there are five main characters; four protagonists and one antagonist. I do a character analysis for each main character and for some feature players (characters, but not the leads). This can get challenging because I have to make my protagonist Luke different from Emily, but not too much like Caleb. Likewise, I have to find a balance between Emily's sweetness and her boldness to stick up for what's right.
My cast for this book is a motley crew of sailors, soldiers (both British and American), housekeepers, slaves, slave traders, wealthy plantation owners, a lawyer, a few French people, and a forgetful but kind resident of Baltimore. Each of their social statuses, the way they lived, grew-up, their beliefs, how they have been treated in the past; all must weave skilfully into a story, and each can affect the plot in a great way.
Another task that I have undertaken is research. For this book, I must know exactly what they wore, ate, what the different characters would talk like, what the religion of the slaves was, when they would dine, as well as military moves that were taken during that time. I even read a book on Francis Scott Key in order to get a grasp on what his character might be like.
So, as you can see, it can get a bit complicated. But, with time, I hope to produce something that will make it all worth it.
The absolute first step for me is planning. I simply must plan everything from A-Z or I won't be able function. Yes, half of these ideas might not make it to the final draft, but at least I have a springboard.
Okay, so I don't really go from A to B and so on. Usually, I already know what A and Z are going to be, I just have to fill in the blanks. On a historical work such as Sweet Chariot I must find ways to incorporate history into it. Otherwise, this time period may not be needed.
After I have planned, I usually do one of two things. 1, I go ahead and begin writing (although technically I'm not supposed to), or 2, I do a character analysis. The latter is more challenging than it sounds. With every story, there is at least one character. It's the writer's job to make him imperfect and believable. By imperfect I mean those little likes and dislikes that make each and every one of us unique. Does he have a favorite food? What does she think about her nation going to war? I write all of these things down.
In Sweet Chariot, there are five main characters; four protagonists and one antagonist. I do a character analysis for each main character and for some feature players (characters, but not the leads). This can get challenging because I have to make my protagonist Luke different from Emily, but not too much like Caleb. Likewise, I have to find a balance between Emily's sweetness and her boldness to stick up for what's right.
My cast for this book is a motley crew of sailors, soldiers (both British and American), housekeepers, slaves, slave traders, wealthy plantation owners, a lawyer, a few French people, and a forgetful but kind resident of Baltimore. Each of their social statuses, the way they lived, grew-up, their beliefs, how they have been treated in the past; all must weave skilfully into a story, and each can affect the plot in a great way.
Another task that I have undertaken is research. For this book, I must know exactly what they wore, ate, what the different characters would talk like, what the religion of the slaves was, when they would dine, as well as military moves that were taken during that time. I even read a book on Francis Scott Key in order to get a grasp on what his character might be like.
So, as you can see, it can get a bit complicated. But, with time, I hope to produce something that will make it all worth it.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Lost in the Mail!!!!
I was asked by the Christian Writers Guild curriculum to write a 4-6 scene personal narrative (kinda like a short memoir) about a time in my life and send it to my mentor. She would critique it and send it back to me. She suggested that I publish it! Well, it hasn't been to any editor's desk yet, but I want to post it here anyway. Feel free to comment or critique further! Here it is:
The roof shaded the walkway of the second-floor shops from the glaring sun. I walked out of the theater where I had just finished taking an acting lesson. My mom, Tracy, and my brother, Brant, were coming to meet me.
"Hey," Mom said in her friendly, glad-to-see-you manner as I enveloped her in a hug.
"We got our referral," Brant said, answering the question I longed to ask.
"We did?" I replied eagerly.
Mom's blonde hair swished slightly as she turned her head to fix her blue eyes on Brant. "No we didn't."
His chocolate eyes looked at me incredulously as we walked to the car. "You honestly believed me?"
"Where are they?" I asked.
"I don't know," Mom said disappointedly.
On the way home, we chatted animatedly about my class. However, the referral was still in the back of my mind.
A year earlier....
Darkness held its temporary reign over the snow-strewn land. The night was cold and peaceful, with the stars shining overhead. A tiny house, tucked away in a small village in Sheboygan county, Wisconsin, was doubtless one of the happiest homes in the world that night. Its four inhabitants, Dad, Mom, me, and my brother were practicing a Valentine's Day tradition in our family.
Dad gave his us gifts, starting with a joke or some candy. He'd end with a more serious thing, such as an inexpensive toy.
"That's it," he said, saying what he said after every single object he brought out. "That's everything."
Brant and I looked at him half-expectantly, attempting to feel out if he meant it. Eventually, we began to become interested in our gifts once more.
"Oh, I've got one more thing. Tracy, you get on the couch, too."
Bewildered, my mother obeyed him. She positioned herself with her face down in the couch's back cushion with her hands behind her back in the way that we did when we were receiving our presents.
He came back from his room and placed something in our hands. My inquisitive fingers wandered up and down the object, trying to guess what it was.
Newspaper? I wondered. But why would Dad give us newspaper? Could this possibly be what I think it is?
"Okay, you can look now."
We turned around. A scroll of lined paper, secured by a rubber band was in our hands. Removing the band, we unrolled the papers.
A thrill of exhilaration ran through me. Over the past six months, I had written Dad contracts (we got our dog under a contract, so why not try for what I wanted most?) and letters, pleading with him to adopt a child. We didn't even know that he had saved them, and yet here four of them were.....signed!!!
I looked up at my mom. Her eyes wer already crimson and teary. "Honey, are you serious?"
"Yep," he said, nodding.
Next thing I remember, my father was sitting on the love seat, dazed as my mother sobbed tears of joy onto his shoulder. I flung myself onto his other shoulder, thanking him and laughing at Mom's tears as my own spilled down my face. Brant just witnessed the joyful scene, laughing at the two of us......
And now, over a year later, we still had no information. No, we didn't even have a picture, of our precious bundle from China.
Mom went to check her adoption internet group for any signs of referrals (the packet that contains the baby's information and picture). As she came back into the living room, I asked, "Any news?"
"They're lost in the mail."
Lost in the mail! I thought. After waiting all this time?!
I sank down into the leathery comfort of one of our living room chairs. After a while, Mom asked, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I was just so expecting to get it today."
"God is in control."
The next few days, we heard no news of our referrals. Furthermore, we weren't the only ones. Sixty-four of the referrals from the agency Great Wall and all of the referrals for our agency, CHI (Children's Hope International), were nowhere to be found.
"If they don't find them soon, they'll have to redo them," Mom told me and Brant.
"And how long will that take?" I asked.
"I don't know."
The days passed. What Mom read got worse. The Center of Chinese Adoption Affairs told Anna, a girl working for the neighboring CHI, that they had no tracking number for the destination that she requested. But they did have a tracking number for Children's House International (also a CHI) in Utah.
Once I was in bed that night, I contemplated our situation. Where was our baby? Was she happy or sad? Was someone giving her the love that we couldn't yet show her? Mom had so often said that, "God is in control," but waiting for God to do what we wanted when I could see no reason for it, was hard. I sighed, remembering the prayer that Mom had prayed that night.
Oh God, I prayed, like Mom said, help the referrals to be found soon, but if it's not to be, then so be it.
My feet hastened down the hardwood steps to retrieve the ball that had rolled down the stairs. I began to give it to my brother, for it was his turn to try to score at my goal in our homemade game that was somewhere in between soccer and volleyball.
The phone! We froze momentarily. Without a word passing between us, we we dashed down the very same steps that I had just ascended. Just the day before, Children's House International had called our agency to affirm our suspicions; they had received our referrals!
Mom was already answering it. "Hello?"
Brant grabbed for the camera as I just stood and eavesdropped on the part of the conversation that I could hear. Flashes went off from all angles as Mom asked questions and wrote down all of Mary's answers on a sheet of paper that had been laying near the phone, poised and ready for the call. So far, the following information had been filled out:
"Chinese name: Xi Ai Mei
Province: Anhui, Dingyuan SWI" (SWI is an orphanage)
"What's her date of birth?" Mom asked. 7-17-05 appeared on the page. Our little girl was a mere 7 1/2 months. The call that we had awaited for such a long time had come!
Two months later.....
The hallway of the Civil Affairs Center in Hefei, China was lined with foreign families. They searched the faces of each baby, hoping to find the slightest detail that would give it away as the child they had prayed for, thought about, and held dear from thousands of miles away. A nanny smiled at us joyously, probably trying to hide the pain she felt by mixing it with the joy she had for the baby in her arms.
Suddenly, a little girl in a man's arms bent backward and looked straight in my direction. Recognition struck me. My sister!
"Mom, I think I see Brielle!"
"Where?' she replied quickly.
I pointed towards her. Mom got Dad to snap a quick photo.
Minutes later, cameras and tears of joy entered the scene as one-by-one, the babies' Chinese names were called out. The families entered a room empty-handed, and left smiling and holding a precious Chinese treasure.
"Xi Ai Mei," our coordinator, Wendy, finally announced. "Whose baby is Xi Ai Mei?"
That name! I had memorized it. I had stared at the pictures of her. I had thought aout her even before she could remember anything at all.
We stepped into the room where we were destined to meet our little bundle of love. Tears flowed over Mom's cheeks as an almost ten-month-old girl with chubby cheeks, thick eyebrows, and beautiful almond eyes was placed into her arms. Another famiy captured the scene with our DVD recorder.
What all the recorders in the world will never be able to capture, however is the feeling which some would call happiness. But, from experience, I think that God alone can put this emotion into words.
I looked into my sister's face. So this was the child that had once only been a letter in my hand, and before that, a dream in my head. We had trusted God, and, once again, He didn't let us down.
The bonding time which followed strengthened my affection for the girl who had once been Xi Ai Mei. She was a nobody in her own land, but, through the miracle of adoption became Brielle Goodrich and means the world to us. There is no doubt about it. We are family.
The roof shaded the walkway of the second-floor shops from the glaring sun. I walked out of the theater where I had just finished taking an acting lesson. My mom, Tracy, and my brother, Brant, were coming to meet me.
"Hey," Mom said in her friendly, glad-to-see-you manner as I enveloped her in a hug.
"We got our referral," Brant said, answering the question I longed to ask.
"We did?" I replied eagerly.
Mom's blonde hair swished slightly as she turned her head to fix her blue eyes on Brant. "No we didn't."
His chocolate eyes looked at me incredulously as we walked to the car. "You honestly believed me?"
"Where are they?" I asked.
"I don't know," Mom said disappointedly.
On the way home, we chatted animatedly about my class. However, the referral was still in the back of my mind.
A year earlier....
Darkness held its temporary reign over the snow-strewn land. The night was cold and peaceful, with the stars shining overhead. A tiny house, tucked away in a small village in Sheboygan county, Wisconsin, was doubtless one of the happiest homes in the world that night. Its four inhabitants, Dad, Mom, me, and my brother were practicing a Valentine's Day tradition in our family.
Dad gave his us gifts, starting with a joke or some candy. He'd end with a more serious thing, such as an inexpensive toy.
"That's it," he said, saying what he said after every single object he brought out. "That's everything."
Brant and I looked at him half-expectantly, attempting to feel out if he meant it. Eventually, we began to become interested in our gifts once more.
"Oh, I've got one more thing. Tracy, you get on the couch, too."
Bewildered, my mother obeyed him. She positioned herself with her face down in the couch's back cushion with her hands behind her back in the way that we did when we were receiving our presents.
He came back from his room and placed something in our hands. My inquisitive fingers wandered up and down the object, trying to guess what it was.
Newspaper? I wondered. But why would Dad give us newspaper? Could this possibly be what I think it is?
"Okay, you can look now."
We turned around. A scroll of lined paper, secured by a rubber band was in our hands. Removing the band, we unrolled the papers.
A thrill of exhilaration ran through me. Over the past six months, I had written Dad contracts (we got our dog under a contract, so why not try for what I wanted most?) and letters, pleading with him to adopt a child. We didn't even know that he had saved them, and yet here four of them were.....signed!!!
I looked up at my mom. Her eyes wer already crimson and teary. "Honey, are you serious?"
"Yep," he said, nodding.
Next thing I remember, my father was sitting on the love seat, dazed as my mother sobbed tears of joy onto his shoulder. I flung myself onto his other shoulder, thanking him and laughing at Mom's tears as my own spilled down my face. Brant just witnessed the joyful scene, laughing at the two of us......
And now, over a year later, we still had no information. No, we didn't even have a picture, of our precious bundle from China.
Mom went to check her adoption internet group for any signs of referrals (the packet that contains the baby's information and picture). As she came back into the living room, I asked, "Any news?"
"They're lost in the mail."
Lost in the mail! I thought. After waiting all this time?!
I sank down into the leathery comfort of one of our living room chairs. After a while, Mom asked, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I was just so expecting to get it today."
"God is in control."
The next few days, we heard no news of our referrals. Furthermore, we weren't the only ones. Sixty-four of the referrals from the agency Great Wall and all of the referrals for our agency, CHI (Children's Hope International), were nowhere to be found.
"If they don't find them soon, they'll have to redo them," Mom told me and Brant.
"And how long will that take?" I asked.
"I don't know."
The days passed. What Mom read got worse. The Center of Chinese Adoption Affairs told Anna, a girl working for the neighboring CHI, that they had no tracking number for the destination that she requested. But they did have a tracking number for Children's House International (also a CHI) in Utah.
Once I was in bed that night, I contemplated our situation. Where was our baby? Was she happy or sad? Was someone giving her the love that we couldn't yet show her? Mom had so often said that, "God is in control," but waiting for God to do what we wanted when I could see no reason for it, was hard. I sighed, remembering the prayer that Mom had prayed that night.
Oh God, I prayed, like Mom said, help the referrals to be found soon, but if it's not to be, then so be it.
My feet hastened down the hardwood steps to retrieve the ball that had rolled down the stairs. I began to give it to my brother, for it was his turn to try to score at my goal in our homemade game that was somewhere in between soccer and volleyball.
The phone! We froze momentarily. Without a word passing between us, we we dashed down the very same steps that I had just ascended. Just the day before, Children's House International had called our agency to affirm our suspicions; they had received our referrals!
Mom was already answering it. "Hello?"
Brant grabbed for the camera as I just stood and eavesdropped on the part of the conversation that I could hear. Flashes went off from all angles as Mom asked questions and wrote down all of Mary's answers on a sheet of paper that had been laying near the phone, poised and ready for the call. So far, the following information had been filled out:
"Chinese name: Xi Ai Mei
Province: Anhui, Dingyuan SWI" (SWI is an orphanage)
"What's her date of birth?" Mom asked. 7-17-05 appeared on the page. Our little girl was a mere 7 1/2 months. The call that we had awaited for such a long time had come!
Two months later.....
The hallway of the Civil Affairs Center in Hefei, China was lined with foreign families. They searched the faces of each baby, hoping to find the slightest detail that would give it away as the child they had prayed for, thought about, and held dear from thousands of miles away. A nanny smiled at us joyously, probably trying to hide the pain she felt by mixing it with the joy she had for the baby in her arms.
Suddenly, a little girl in a man's arms bent backward and looked straight in my direction. Recognition struck me. My sister!
"Mom, I think I see Brielle!"
"Where?' she replied quickly.
I pointed towards her. Mom got Dad to snap a quick photo.
Minutes later, cameras and tears of joy entered the scene as one-by-one, the babies' Chinese names were called out. The families entered a room empty-handed, and left smiling and holding a precious Chinese treasure.
"Xi Ai Mei," our coordinator, Wendy, finally announced. "Whose baby is Xi Ai Mei?"
That name! I had memorized it. I had stared at the pictures of her. I had thought aout her even before she could remember anything at all.
We stepped into the room where we were destined to meet our little bundle of love. Tears flowed over Mom's cheeks as an almost ten-month-old girl with chubby cheeks, thick eyebrows, and beautiful almond eyes was placed into her arms. Another famiy captured the scene with our DVD recorder.
What all the recorders in the world will never be able to capture, however is the feeling which some would call happiness. But, from experience, I think that God alone can put this emotion into words.
I looked into my sister's face. So this was the child that had once only been a letter in my hand, and before that, a dream in my head. We had trusted God, and, once again, He didn't let us down.
The bonding time which followed strengthened my affection for the girl who had once been Xi Ai Mei. She was a nobody in her own land, but, through the miracle of adoption became Brielle Goodrich and means the world to us. There is no doubt about it. We are family.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
9-1-1, Dedicated to the Catastrophe of 9/11
9/11. The day that changed it all. Before that fateful day, we were just a normal country, innocent bystanders of the Middle Eastern crisises.
Then, all of a sudden, Dad phoned from work as our school day was beginning. It was only about 8:00 our time, 9:00 in New York City. He was watching the news, and asked Mom to do the same.
For many minutes, our schoolwork laid neglected as we all stared in horrified silence at the smoke spiraling into the sky. We were already hearing rumors of important buildings being evacuated. Even at our young ages of 8 and 6, Brant and I could understand the tragedy of this day. Brant thought that Dad should leave work, while Mom and I tried to calmly explain to him the unlikeliness of Dad being harmed.
I recall kneeling on our couch and looking out upon the sunset. The news must have still been on, for I heard the words, "This morning, the world started out rightside up. Tonight, it is upside down."
That's so true, I thought.
Since then, I have often wondered why the terrorists selected that day to execute their plans. Could it, by any chance, have anything to do with the fact that the American emergency number (9-1-1) matched with the numbers of the date (9/11)?
Thus, I came up with this plot line. It's not fully developed yet, but I thought that I'd include the beginning here in memory of the victims of 9/11. So here it is, the opening words of 9-1-1!
"Mom and Dad? It's me, Sydney. I wanted to let you know that the plane has been hijacked. I wanted to say that I love you so much. Tell everyone that I love them. Oh, and Lindsay? I don't have any hard feelings because of what you said yesterday. It grieves me to know that I'll probably never see you guys again. If you call the airline authorities, tell them I'm on United Flight 175. Well, I guess this is-"
Seventeen-year-old Lindsay slapped the buton which stopped the answering machine. Stunned, her trembling hands grasped the keys to her car. She had to go tell her parents.
As she pulled out of the driveway, her mind lingered on everything that she and her sister had fought over. Was it just last night that Lindsay had called Sydney selfish just because she wouldn't buy her tickets to see her favorite band? She banged the wheel in her frustrated remorse.
She was still brooding over this as her car slowly ascended the parking garage reserved for the northern one of the Twin Towers. Parking on the visitors level, she stepped out. The elevator took her to floor 14, where both of her parents worked for a banking company.
Stopping at an office door, she hesitated to gather up the courage to confide such a tragedy to her mother. She rapped on the door.
"Lindsay! What are you....What's wrong?" Her mother's smile vanished.
"Mom," Lindsay's voice quivered. Suddenly, the ponds welling in her eyes overflowed into streams upon her cheeks as she choked out the message. "Sydney called to...to...to say that her plane has been hijacked!"
A deafening shatter was heard from above. The structure shook. Lindsay clasped her hands to her ears as fire alarms beeped out there message. Bewildered, she looked at her mother. The woman gulped, then slid a protective arm about her daughter and said, "Let's go outside."
"What about Dad?"
"Daddy's...a man. He'll know what to do."
The door to the nearest stairwell was already ajar when the duo reached it, and people were beginning to fill the narrow width of the stairs. Lindsay began the descent, followed by her mom.
Crash! The ceiling collapsed behind her.
"Mom!" Lindsay yelled, whirling around. Racing back to the pile of rubble, she shouted, "Mom?! Are you alright?"
"Yes, I am," came the voice from behind the debris.
"You just wait there. I'll get you out."
Just as Lindsay began shoving broken bits of glass, wood, metal, and other unidentifiable solids around, she smelled smoke. She heard her mother say, "The fire's at the doorway! You'll never be able to move all this in time. Spare yourself; leave me here!"
"But I-"
"I love you. I'm saying this for your own good!"
"I love you, too, Mom," the girl wailed. "I'm sorry for how rebellious I've been these past years. If I had another chance, I'd be better!"
"I hold nothing against you. But you must go now, or we'll both die!"
All of a sudden, Lindsay felt a hand grab her arm and pull her from her post next to her mother. Raising an ash-stained face, she saw her father. His stern gaze met hers. "She's right, Lindsay. Go!"
Gulping to swallow her grief, the girl nodded. Weeping, she fled down the steps and out into the sunshine.
The buzz of a plane flying overhead became audible. Gazing over her shoulder, she spotted the words United upon the side of the airplane, just moments before it crashed into the South Tower. Tears sprung to her eyes afresh. Sydney's life had just ended.
Then, all of a sudden, Dad phoned from work as our school day was beginning. It was only about 8:00 our time, 9:00 in New York City. He was watching the news, and asked Mom to do the same.
For many minutes, our schoolwork laid neglected as we all stared in horrified silence at the smoke spiraling into the sky. We were already hearing rumors of important buildings being evacuated. Even at our young ages of 8 and 6, Brant and I could understand the tragedy of this day. Brant thought that Dad should leave work, while Mom and I tried to calmly explain to him the unlikeliness of Dad being harmed.
I recall kneeling on our couch and looking out upon the sunset. The news must have still been on, for I heard the words, "This morning, the world started out rightside up. Tonight, it is upside down."
That's so true, I thought.
Since then, I have often wondered why the terrorists selected that day to execute their plans. Could it, by any chance, have anything to do with the fact that the American emergency number (9-1-1) matched with the numbers of the date (9/11)?
Thus, I came up with this plot line. It's not fully developed yet, but I thought that I'd include the beginning here in memory of the victims of 9/11. So here it is, the opening words of 9-1-1!
"Mom and Dad? It's me, Sydney. I wanted to let you know that the plane has been hijacked. I wanted to say that I love you so much. Tell everyone that I love them. Oh, and Lindsay? I don't have any hard feelings because of what you said yesterday. It grieves me to know that I'll probably never see you guys again. If you call the airline authorities, tell them I'm on United Flight 175. Well, I guess this is-"
Seventeen-year-old Lindsay slapped the buton which stopped the answering machine. Stunned, her trembling hands grasped the keys to her car. She had to go tell her parents.
As she pulled out of the driveway, her mind lingered on everything that she and her sister had fought over. Was it just last night that Lindsay had called Sydney selfish just because she wouldn't buy her tickets to see her favorite band? She banged the wheel in her frustrated remorse.
She was still brooding over this as her car slowly ascended the parking garage reserved for the northern one of the Twin Towers. Parking on the visitors level, she stepped out. The elevator took her to floor 14, where both of her parents worked for a banking company.
Stopping at an office door, she hesitated to gather up the courage to confide such a tragedy to her mother. She rapped on the door.
"Lindsay! What are you....What's wrong?" Her mother's smile vanished.
"Mom," Lindsay's voice quivered. Suddenly, the ponds welling in her eyes overflowed into streams upon her cheeks as she choked out the message. "Sydney called to...to...to say that her plane has been hijacked!"
A deafening shatter was heard from above. The structure shook. Lindsay clasped her hands to her ears as fire alarms beeped out there message. Bewildered, she looked at her mother. The woman gulped, then slid a protective arm about her daughter and said, "Let's go outside."
"What about Dad?"
"Daddy's...a man. He'll know what to do."
The door to the nearest stairwell was already ajar when the duo reached it, and people were beginning to fill the narrow width of the stairs. Lindsay began the descent, followed by her mom.
Crash! The ceiling collapsed behind her.
"Mom!" Lindsay yelled, whirling around. Racing back to the pile of rubble, she shouted, "Mom?! Are you alright?"
"Yes, I am," came the voice from behind the debris.
"You just wait there. I'll get you out."
Just as Lindsay began shoving broken bits of glass, wood, metal, and other unidentifiable solids around, she smelled smoke. She heard her mother say, "The fire's at the doorway! You'll never be able to move all this in time. Spare yourself; leave me here!"
"But I-"
"I love you. I'm saying this for your own good!"
"I love you, too, Mom," the girl wailed. "I'm sorry for how rebellious I've been these past years. If I had another chance, I'd be better!"
"I hold nothing against you. But you must go now, or we'll both die!"
All of a sudden, Lindsay felt a hand grab her arm and pull her from her post next to her mother. Raising an ash-stained face, she saw her father. His stern gaze met hers. "She's right, Lindsay. Go!"
Gulping to swallow her grief, the girl nodded. Weeping, she fled down the steps and out into the sunshine.
The buzz of a plane flying overhead became audible. Gazing over her shoulder, she spotted the words United upon the side of the airplane, just moments before it crashed into the South Tower. Tears sprung to her eyes afresh. Sydney's life had just ended.
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