Perhaps you find yourself lowly in spirit right now. Shabby and lowly. You think to yourself, But it’s only the start of the school year. How can I already feel so threadbare?
In fact, that’s a curiously favorable place to be. Jesus said, “Blessed are the lowly in spirit “(Matt 5:3). Blessed are you if you find yourself at the end of your rope.
Resist the urge to rescue yourself from the threadbare place inside with trivial fixes to the outside. Instead, come to Psalm 22 lowly. The psalmist will put your very groanings into words. They were our Lord’s words on the cross. Meet the broken Savior there again.
Then you’ll be ready for the restoration we are promised in Psalm 23.
Now it is October. You might be walking or driving and see a leaf fall from a tree. Ask Him to help you comprehend the falling leaf. Ask Him to meet you in your lowly place and reveal what in the world it means to be blessed for it.
Author: jessarcher
The Necessary Stillness for Making Art
The news headlines are screaming for your attention. Friends and family are elbowing for attention on social media. But you are a creative type trying to carve out space to do your art. You translate life best through creative endeavors. And you need freedom from the noise to create your art, be it writing, painting, music, or any other artistic expression. Is it possible to turn off the technological chatter? And why is silence so necessary for making art?
It helps to imagine creativity as a shy child. If you can imagine it like this, you’ll see why you need silence for creativity to blossom. Is a shy child going to share her feelings in a loud crowd? Not likely. She needs a quiet, comfortable space to open up. She needs some coaxing to speak up, reminders that she won’t be interrupted. Reminders that her voice is utterly unique, and that you want to listen. In the same way, your creative voice will not speak up unless you silence the distractions and invite it to speak. You’ll be amazed at your artistic output if you deliberately shut off the technological noise and listen to your inner shy, creative spirit.
Ask yourself this: are the writers, painters, photographers whose work you admire most tweeting all day long? Are they writing long, cumbersome rants on Facebook or posting selfies on Instagram? Most likely the answer to all of these is no. They are offline for long stretches of the day, their heads down doing the creative work…carving out an artistic expression of life in quietness.
But you need to market your art on social media, you say? Some experts suggest that for every hour you spend promoting yourself on social media, you should spend five hours doing your craft, unplugged from technology.
It can be hard to shut down our devices. Little alerts object to your self-imposed cloistering. So how do you quiet the technological clamor? Here are just a few practical tips that I’ve found very helpful:
- If you are working for a long stretch of time on a creative project, why not set up an auto reply email message. It takes just seconds to do in your email settings. You can even make it funny: “Going off the grid to tap into my creative side…wish me luck! Be back soon.”
- If text interruptions come up while you are writing or drawing (which they will) just send a quick automated reply: “Hey, working on my book/poem/song…will call soon.” Your people want you to get your creative work done.
- Try and do your creative work at the same time every day. This is helpful for two reasons: A.) It’s a good habit for your brain: I tune out noise from 8am-10am. Creativity (like that inner child) likes routine…likes predictability. B.) It reminds other people not to poke you if you if they don’t really have to. Oh, that’s right, she works in her studio at this time.
Everyone needs breaks from the onslaught of technologically provided information. But artists must take a break from it. Try turning off the devices for short periods of time each day, then gradually stretch yourself toward more stillness. Your creative inner child will thank you.
The Best Kind of Vacation
I like to post this piece just after Labor Day. It reminds me what kind of vacation I look forward to for next summer. Maybe you can relate? Share this post if you can.
The best kind of vacation
Is a putting off of things to do that for once is healthy.
A scrap the to do list
A crumple it up and drop kick it to the curb of your mind.
That’s a vacation.
Once that’s done and out of the way, now wipe your hands, roll up your sleeves
and take a nap.
The kind that goes too long. When you wake up and don’t know your own name
with a pool of drool on your pillow. And your limbs tingling
from the humility of gravity.
A deep sleep in the heat of the day.
Open the suitcase, and let the insides ooze their way out day after day.
Don’t sort. Don’t rearrange. Don’t refold.
See your vacation in expanding concentric circles around the suitcase.
Resist the urge to feel useful.
Don’t clean up.
See what happens.
Of course, I’ve had the other vacations too. The ones with foldout maps
of the old city. Of guide books and diesel and the museum closes at 4pm,
So let’s hurry.
These are grand. And photographic. And smart.
But you never quite know what to say about them afterward.
When someone asks, How was your vacation?
No, come mid- November I won’t daydream of on-the go
All engrossing, pavement slapping vacations.
I’ll dream of the supine kind,
with my hands, my head and my feet still for hours.
A Chat with Grammy in the Sky
I’m on an airplane headed back home to Austin, back to my waiting husband and kids. I’ve been in Michigan at my grandmother, Harriet Decker’s memorial service. She lived a long life, mother to five children. As soon as I step through my front door I will be needed again. And it won’t be a pastel, casual need. It will big need, loud like tie-dye. So I’m savoring the silence and a cup of coffee in the clouds. I’m listening for Grammy’s voice as I study some photographs of her.
If I listen close I can hear her encouraging me as a mother.
You can be patient, Jessie. You can do this mothering. It is a calling. Even if you don’t feel it every day, it’s there. The calling is in your arms because she scraped a knee. It’s a boy who needs correction with love. Rest on the couch with a hand on your forehead if you need to. Utter praises. See what scripture you can call to mind. Try it.
You can mother them with a rhythm, Jessie. You fear you can’t, but you can. See a metronome in your mind. Follow a beat. Hum a rousing tune. Don’t retreat to worry. Don’t let yourself get grumpy. Clip some flowers; they’ll make you feel good. Draft a poem when you hold the baby on your hips. Read a recipe while they play. Don’t demand every margin of time be yours. Stop grabbing at freedom like you’re starving. You aren’t starving; you are simply a mother. Find small moments in the day. Savor them like fine desserts. The discipline of choosing joy is real. I know. I had five children. Lean into the hard days not away from them. 
The plane is touching down now. The wheels bump along in that way they do. I take one more long look at her pictures.
“And remember what my mother (your great-grandmother) used to say, ‘The best things in life are something to look forward to, a memory to cherish, and someone who needs you.'”
Take Your Mark
It’s hot. It’s August, 2016. The political spectrum in the U.S. is dry and barren, and every day the news saps our strength. So much needs fixing. Seems like we should be doing something important. But we’re parched. We need an oasis and a healthy diversion. We need the Rio Olympic Games.
I have a five year old boy headed to kindergarten in two weeks. I’m preparing for this shift by sitting completely still. In the evenings we’re piling on the couch to watch The Games. I run my fingers through my son’s overgrown summer hair. In a week I’ll cut it, just in time for his first day of school. But not yet. Not just yet.
For now we’re basking in the luxury of A/C and saying the athletes names from around the world. Saying the names we can barely pronounce because they matter. Names matter. Not one is there by accident. Neither are we. We watch the world’s best athletes teach us about the glory of perseverance, about honorable defeat, about the gracious winner. The unified team. We’re watching the very people who personify these terms.
Is my boy ready for kindergarten? He doesn’t run very fast. He still can’t climb trees. He only weighs 34 lbs. I saw some of those other incoming kindergartners. They looked like 10year olds. Will he make it on the playground?
The swimmers at Rio get on their blocks. “Watch now,” I say to my son.
My boy is so eager. He gets in peoples’ faces. Will the other students be kind?
“Take your mark,” the droll voice of the official calls to the swimmers. Their bodies tense, holding for the agonizing pause.
I’ve got my arms around my boy.
“Are they ready to race, Mom?”
The buzzer signals. The swimmers leap from their blocks.
The athletes are halfway into their gorgeous race before I can even answer him.
“Yes, they’re ready.”
The Wife of a Singer-Songwriter: Part 3
On the road again, I just can’t wait to get on the road again, the life I love is making music with my friends, and I can’t wait to get on the road again.
I want to yank Willie Nelson’s braids every time I hear that song. Or every time my husband sings it to me, elbowing me in the ribs cause he known it’s such a cliche and he wants to see my eyes roll.
I’ve got a good man, a great father who is sometimes more tender and nurturing to our kids than me, and he is a lover to me in a million ways. But even he can’t help but sing when it’s time to hit the road again for a tour. There’s nothing he loves more than his music tours. He is dancing around the house as he stuffs clothes into a suitcase. He’s tickling the kids; he’s flirting with me. He’s cleaning out gutters and tightening up door hinges. He’s never more attentive than the day before he leaves for tour. I can’t stand that. I want to be distant. I want to pout. I want to scream, But what about ME!!!?? Where’s my adventure? Where’s my road?
The kids and I stand at the top of the driveway and wave goodbye as he drives away. I feel like a giant cliche. Did he remember every piece of equipment? Did he pack his guitar? He won’t eat anything on the road today but sunflower seeds, I’ll bet you. I shake my head. I have to let him do this his way or it doesn’t work. I hustle the kids into shoes for the hundredth time this week by myself. On the fifth morning he’s gone I wake up just knowing he played a killer show last night. I can feel it. I can’t wait to talk to him. I take familiar rights and lefts in my neighborhood. The kids bicker in the backseat. But there’s a good song playing on the radio, and it gets me thinking. If there’s a reason to parent alone sometimes, to shoulder more, to be taxed harder for the sake of your spouse, than this is the one I can live with. This reason. I turn down our street. I’ll let the kids eat cereal for dinner. Then I’ll call him. I hope his show tonight is incredible. I hope he banks. I hope he floors the audience. I hope his music wakes them from their stupor, so that they be forever changed.
The Wife of a Singer-Songwriter: Part 2
It’s hard to casually listen to music when you’re married to a musician. The radio is on in the car. I’m humming along.
My husband turns it up, who is this?
I don’t know, I say.
Then why do you know the words? Long pause. His brow is furrowed as he listens hard.
This is junk, he states. This song is awful.
I sigh. How do I affirm him?
Here’s right though, and when he sings his songs, I hear how hard he works at them, and how unfair it is that so much trashy music gets all that radio play. He stays up late on weekends to write and play guitar. Beer cans and empty potato chip bags I clean up the next morning while my coffee brews. Did he finish writing a song last night? I bring him a mug of coffee while the kids eat their 3rd bowl of cereal.
Hey, wow, thanks, he yawns and takes the coffee. Sets it on his night stand, then reaches for my waist.
He smiles big, hopeful and messy up at me.
Yes, I grin back. He finished writing that song.
The Wife of a Singer-Songwriter: Part 1
Friends! The next 3 blog posts will be about being a musician’s wife. If you know a musician’s wife, share my posts freely. Hope you enjoy.
I am the wife of a singer-songwriter. The wife of a working musician. He is sensitive to critique. He’s drafting a new song and feels great. He’s depressed and money is tight. The dishwasher is broken. But he only writes songs and fine-tunes instruments. He’s ticked that he can’t fix the dishwasher. He’s hurrying out the door for a gig tonight. Don’t get a sitter he mutters, not worth it. No one will be there. Big black cases in the hallway that my kids trip on or want to use as playground equipment. No no no, that’s Dad’s amp. I haul it back to the closet or back under our bed next to two guitar cases. I hate putting away his music crap. I love his music. When he sings I remember again why and where we are headed and for whose glory. Not ours. We count the cash when he gets home from the gig, better than he expected. Cool, he sighs, let’s call a dishwasher repairman.
Machuca’s Motorcycle
Sometimes I think motherhood has seeded and grown an adventurous spirit in me, much more than I ever knew before the kids came along. Maybe when you’re pinned down and needed so much, it stirs a desire to be free. Then, I remember “It is good to grasp the one and not let go of the other (Ecclesiastes 7:18).”
I’ve always loved that old Neil Young song, “Unknown Legend.” You’ll see I pay homage to it in this poem. I can just picture the woman he sings about. I think she looks a lot like me, and maybe you too.
Machuca’s Motorcycle
“Now she’s dressin’ two kids
Lookin’ for that magic kiss
She gets that far-away
look in her eyes…” -Neil Young
Early in the morning before most people are awake
my baby cries for milk.
I slump down the hall to her. We nurse in the rocking chair.
Sometimes, if I’m lucky, I hear my neighbor, Machuca
start up his motorcycle,
across the street.
Though my window blinds are closed, I can picture that bike.
She leans on her sexy, thin kickstand.
Small leaves twirl on the ground behind the exhaust pipe.
Inside his house, Machuca pours coffee into his thermos.
Takes one last glance around the place.
Turns down the thermostat,
then locks the front door.
I like to think he doesn’t even know when he’ll return.
The baby has finished eating. She coos up tenderly at me.
Machuca revs the engine and
my baby’s eyes startle. I smile.
The baby thinks I smile for her. Which, of course, is true.
But my mind is on that motorcycle, getting warmer as she
glides down our street,
turning out from the city, away from all the indubitable ties that bind.
Want to Discuss my Book with People? Here are 15 Great Discussion Q’s!
Friends, I hope my book, Finding Home with the Beatles, Bob Dylan and Billy Graham can be a springboard for some honest, open and genuine conversation. Feel free to pick and choose from the following list of questions. Use them in talking with friends, family, a book club, small group or church group. Just click the link below for a printable version!
Racing Pony
Between Fort Stockton and Balmoreah, someone thought to stencil a racing pony on a slab of concrete by the side of I-10. Twice I year I catch a glimpse of this galloping black pony as I barrel down the hot highway toward El Paso.
It looks as though the concrete slab was once part of an imposing gate, perhaps the entrance to a cattle ranch.
I’ve never stopped the car to get out and look at the stencil. I wish I could, but I think of it too late. I remember that I want to get a close up look at the painted pony, right as my car is zooming past it at 80 miles per hour. For the next 25 miles I’m left wishing I had remembered to stop and get out, get up close.
What is it about that pony stencil that I like so much? It’s the horses legs. All four legs are elevated, tucked in, that nanosecond of time in which a horse is completely levitating as it races. Sometimes photographers catch this precise moment at The Kentucky Derby, and you see the photograph on the cover of Time magazine a week later. For one split second the winning horse is flying, all four legs off the ground. Magic.
Such is the painted pony on the concrete slab off the hot highway on I-10. Levitated, untouchable, mane and tail holding on for dear life.
I want to make sure I’m running right. And by right I don’t mean ethically or morally. I mean by a calling, a boom! there goes the gun, and I’m flying in the race for which I have been and am being trained. I’ll never experience that nanosecond of celerity if I’m not.
I’ve got things I want to accomplish over the next two years. I want my first book picked up by my parent publisher, Zondervan, and printed, distributed and marketed on their dime. And I want to be laying under a shade umbrella somewhere in Mexico when I get this news.
And then I want to publish my first collection of poems. I have big hopes for my first poetry collection. I plan to blow your mind. I plan to reintroduce poetry to an entire demographic. I guess this is called driven. But that word doesn’t move me. The stencil of a racing pony does.
The Time Has Finally Come!
Hello friends, happy 2016!
I am so pleased to let you know that my little memoir, “Finding Home with the Beatles, Bob Dylan and Billy Graham” is now available for purchase online.
Here is how to purchase my book online:
1. If you are ordering my book, I prefer that you use the publisher’s website:
WestBow Press
Once at the bookstore page, just type in my name,
Jess Archer. You can buy either the hardback or soft copy.
2. You can also purchase my book from Amazon in both print form and ebooks.
Please note: If you contributed $100+ to my campaign, you will receive a free, signed copy of my book from me within the next two weeks. Look for it in the mail!
Once you have my book, (and hopefully enjoy reading it) I would love it if you continue to support me by any or all of these ways:
1. post a selfie on Facebook (Jess Archer) or Instagram (jessarcheryes) of you holding my book. Add the link where people can buy it.
2. Email friends and family with a link to my website: writerjessarcher.com
3. Tell your friends and family about my book.
4. Text friends and family a photo of the cover of my book with the tag: read this book!
5. If you write a blog, consider doing a review of my book in your next post.
Drop me a note any time! Love and blessings in 2016.
Love, Jess Archer
Drum roll, please… the Cover of my First Book!
On this first day of 2016, I am so pleased to reveal to you the cover of my first book, “Finding Home with the Beatles, Bob Dylan and Billy Graham.” Artist, Tara Deetscreek http://taradeetscreek.com painted the image, and the design team at WestBow Press arranged the graphics. I am smitten with the results.
My little memoir will be available for purchase in a just a few weeks! Stay tuned. Thank you for cheering me on!!!
You’ll Never be Happier than This: remembering a Year in Paris
I couldn’t help myself. In all our collective grief for Parisians this week, I needed to write about the year I lived there as a child. Writing is good friends with therapy. If you’re tired of the biased news onslaught that just has ALL the information, you might enjoy this sweet reminiscence. Nothing newsworthy, just real and warm. Some of this essay you’ll find in my forthcoming book. Due out January!
We lived on the 3rd floor of an apartment building on Avenue du Roule in Neuilly sur de Sienne, a lush and residential section of western Paris. Dad drove a red Renault. Our apartment was large by Parisian standards. Dad had worked hard to find one that would suitably fit our sizable, boisterous American family. Three bedrooms, a large living room, two dining areas and the commodes (endlessly amusing to us kids): three rooms for each private business: a toilet room, the shower room, and the bath/bidet room (which we used for Barbie “poolside” adventures).
Allison and Eric shared a bunk bed in a small room off the narrow kitchen. Heather and I shared a bedroom with a beautiful patio that rushed from the end of the room, overlooking the well-kempt courtyard below, enjoyed exclusively by our landlord, his fat wife and their naughty child.
The apartment was stocked with more dishware and utensils than we would ever use, including some kitchen items that my young, Midwestern mother had never seen: garlic press, French press, a marble cheese slab.
We ate off those foreign plates and drank from the cups. We wiped our mouths respectfully; we laid the dishes carefully back in the cupboards. The landscape was not ours, but we scraped from it all that we could. It was a warm and comfortable little shelter in the cultural center of the world.
While Mom and Dad squinted at their English/French translation book, the four of us kids found life in France whimsical, as only children can in a foreign country. The unfamiliar language was not a deterrent – we found ways to communicate. Plus, our French increased daily, and we often rolled our eyes at our parents’ flat mid-western attempts at the tongue rolling r’s. Allison was four and attended an all-French pre-school. Her teacher was thin, in her 20’s, exuding French style. Cashmere grey cardigan, discussing with her little flock all things French starting with the letter “A.” By the end of our year in Paris, she informed my mother that it would be a crime for us to leave France. Allison’s French accent was perfectly formed now, and she could be fluent in a year. My mother thanked her and looked at her youngest daughter with a hint of awe.
At Marymount International School, Heather, Eric and I enjoyed friendships with people from all over the world. We had all come together in Paris because of our fathers’ jobs. It was no longer odd that I had moved around so many times, so had all my classmates. Military children, ambassadors children, kids whose fathers worked for IBM. We all wore the same navy and white uniforms. We all attended morning Mass; we all sat through French class and stumbled in and out of understanding.
As a child in Paris, you have no sight above your parents’ hips. You rarely glimpse the grand cathedrals, or Arch, or Eiffel Tower the way adults photograph them. Your range of vision centers on sidewalk and trees, fresh market tables and bums crouched in corners. You learn the place by scent. Stale bread in gutters, the oily cuff of a bum’s sleeve as he reaches for a franc. Dog poop in petite conical shapes around the bases of trees, just outside the patisseries. The steamy honking streets and the smell of diesel mingled with stale water in the flower bins at the markets.
Right before dinnertime, Mom put two francs in my palm. “Jess and Eric run to the boulangerie for me.” We skipped down our small hallway, into the elevator and then out the big brass magnetic doors, chasing then racing each other, through the gate and just a block down our avenue to the boulangerie around the corner. The bread in the window was for show. We pushed open the clinking door.
“ Bonjour, petits enfants americains!” the shop ladies, their hair swept back in buns, blouses loose and work-worn. The smell of butter wafting from their breasts .
“Deux baguettes s’il vous plait?” we held out our sweaty francs.
“Evidenment!” the women exclaimed. One came around the counter. She laid two baguettes in my arms like they were tender babies.
“Dites bonjour a votre mere pour nous.”
“We will!” we slipped back into English and waved au revoir.
Outside the patisserie, I broke off the end of one baguette, split it down the warm white middle and handed half to Eric. We walked slowly back to our apartment. That robust French woman should have called to us from the doorway. She should have chastened us, “ Remember this moment! You’ll never be happier than this!”
Tired of Living in a Small Space? Ten Reasons to be Thankful for (and laugh about) Your Little House
Last year NPR reported that the average square footage in American homes has more than doubled since 1950. In fact, http://shrinkthatfootprint.com notes that new homes built in 2009 in the US are on average 2,164 square feet in size. That’s almost double the size of my house in south Austin. With two adults, two kids and a dog up in here, do I wish I had more square footage? A lot of times, yes!
But lately I’ve been pooling my reasons to be thankful for our cozy postage stamp. If moving on up isn’t in the cards for you right now (as it’s not for me), then here are 10 reasons to be thankful for and laugh about your tiny dwelling space.
- The big holidays are approaching. Chances are, if you live in a wee house or flat, you won’t be asked to host Thanksgiving or Christmas for the entire extended family. And that freedom can do wonders for your sanity! (But watch out. With less square footage, you might get cousin Eddy and crew parked outside your house in his RV.)
2. I almost never have to wonder where the family’s gone. They are all RIGHT HERE. From my vantage point at the kitchen stove I have a view of the dog licking a half empty beer bottle on the deck, the toddler ripping a book in the living room and my four year old on the can in the bathroom. What’s not to love about that panoramic?
3. For the environmentally conscious part of you, be encouraged about your small dwelling space: you are probably living right within your means. Small homes tend to mean smaller mortgage/rent payments, less heating and cooling needs, fewer furnishings, and less time to maintain. “In terms of carbon emissions, small is beautiful,” says energy analyst Lindsay Wilson.
4. Your kids want to be near you. Ever notice that even in cavernous spaces, your children will cling and rub their bodies on you like stray cats? There’s a fallacy that if you live in a bigger home your kids will play better by themselves. In truth, they’ll gather toys from out of their distant, cold bedrooms and pile them up wherever YOU are. They want to be in your company. Your kids don’t feel the need to spread out.
5. It doesn’t require a leap in logic to figure out that if I can’t afford a large home, then I also can’t afford a cleaning service. No matter! (I say with a glass of wine in one hand and Swiffer in the other.) In 9 minutes my tiny floors are spotless.
6. Have you seen the footage of homeless Syrian refugees? I highly doubt they’d turn up their noses at my modest 1, 300 square foot home. I can choose gratitude.
7. Try adjusting the way you describe your space or lack-there-of. For instance, when asked at parties where we live, my husband and I like to answer, “In a charming, south Austin step saver.” Got yourself a beach bungalow? English Cottage? Shabby chic cubbyhole? Get creative about your real estate! I promise at least you’ll laugh.
8. There’s that old truism that one never leaves an IKEA store with just one item in hand. Yes, true no matter how big or small your dwelling space. But we rarely leave IKEA with large unnecessary furnishings. And that’s good for the budget. Modest square footage quickly helps me ward off impulse buying.
9. If the weather is decent, we are outside! A small house means we explore what our city has to offer.
10. My most treasured reason to be thankful for my pint sized home has to do with my kids. I’ve never needed a baby monitor; my kids’ bedrooms are a light hop away from mine. If I lay very still in my bed at night, I can sometimes hear my son sigh contentedly in his sleep. And I wouldn’t trade the peace of that closeness for a mansion on a hill.
Know someone who lives in a little home? Encourage them today. Share this post on your wall!
The Kind of Vacation I Like Best
Labor Day has passed…that signals the end of summer. Come January, I’ll be daydreaming again of the kind of vacation I like best.
The best kind of vacation
Is a putting off of things to do that for once is healthy
A scrap the to do list
A crumple it up and drop kick it to the curb of your mind.
That’s a vacation.
Once that’s done and out of the way, now wipe your hands, roll up your sleeves
And take a nap.
The kind that goes too long. When you wake and don’t know your own name
With a pool of drool on your pillow. And your limbs tingling
From the humility of gravity.
A deep sleep in the heat of the day.
Open the suitcase, and let the insides ooze their way out day after day.
Don’t sort. Don’t rearrange. Don’t refold.
See your vacation in expanding, concentric circles around the suitcase.
Resist the urge to feel useful.
Don’t clean up.
See what happens.
Of course, I’ve had the other vacations too. The ones with foldout maps
of the old city. Of guide books and diesel and the museum closes at 4pm,
So let’s hurry.
These are grand. And photographic. And smart.
But you never quite know what to say about them afterward.
When someone asks, How was your vacation?
No, come mid-January I won’t daydream of on-the go
All engrossing, pavement slapping vacations.
I’ll dream of the supine kind,
with my hands, my head and my feet still for hours.
Grace on the Dance Floor (Why I do Cardio Funk class)
Remember back in the early 2000’s when comedian, Dane Cooke described girls in their 20’s at the dance club? “Forget guys! I just wanna dance,” he imitated women in a high pitch. “And all the girls throw their purses into a big pile in the middle of dance floor.”
I was in my 20’s in the 2000’s. My friends and I watched the sketch and cried laughing because he nailed it. That was us. We just wanted to dance… before marriage and certainly before two kids.
I’d have to dig up and recharge an old flip phone to see photographic evidence of the last time I went dancing with girlfriends at a club. But that doesn’t mean I’m not still shaking it on the dance floor still. On the contrary, it seems I still just want to dance. And lately I’ve gone out dancing every week.
My friend, Darby is a YMCA evangelist, and she got us to join last winter. (Let’s be honest, it was the childcare that sealed the deal. For 2 whole hours I can entrust my children to friendly staff who read them books and haul them around outside in a wagon. )
That’s incentive to show up, but what’s become a lovely, surprising joy in my life is what I do while my kids are in child care at the Y. And that’s Cardio Funk class with Ramsay.
I remember the first cardio funk class I attended for two reasons. First, Ramsay’s name. Of course a hip hop dance instructor would be named Ramsay. And second, how terrible I was at the dance moves. (I mean, I’ve always been a suspect dancer. If people are doing the “lawnmower” move at a wedding reception, I join in and tend to look exactly like a woman mowing her lawn…at high noon on an Austin, August day.) Grace on the dance floor has never been synonymous with Jess Archer.
Cardio Funk kicked my butt that first day. I’d never sweat more in an exercise class. I wanted more, even if I couldn’t do the moves very well.
But a funny thing has begun to happen. Even though I’m a terrible dancer, the word grace is exactly what I’ve come to love about cardio funk class. The atmosphere is inviting. People with special needs attend. There’s a guy with Downs Syndrome named Chris. He has more energy than my four year old. Sometimes, just out of pure joy, he bursts into improvisational break dancing. And Ramsay cheers for him. We all cheer for him. Cheering dovetails beautifully with dancing.
Ramsay often calls up people from class to help demonstrate the moves to a song. For five whole minutes that woman is the sexiest show girl you’ve ever seen. She’s unstoppable, like Janet Jackson in the 90’s.
Ramsay hollers and whoops and yells out encouragement. “Go, Jess!” she’s said on occasion. It makes the heart soar, and directly afterward I flop the choreography. But it doesn’t matter because I’m genuinely having fun.
I’m not at the clubs anymore, but cardio funk class is possibly even better. (No drunk guys slamming into me.) Also, for one whole hour nobody needs this mommy. Nobody is crying or pulling at my shirt. There is no laundry or mess or to do list. I don’t even have my phone with me. I am hands free and care free. It’s just my body- pumping heart, swelling lungs and muscles getting stronger every week. And that feels so good as I get one year older every year. If I keep my eyes glued on Ramsay, and turn away from my own reflection in the big mirror, I get the moves right. Well, about 70% of the time I get them right. If I lose focus and start mentally drifting…what I should make for dinner tonight or how do I compare to that person… my feet get fumbly. It’s all kind of the perfect metaphor for my walk with Jesus. If I keep my eyes on the instructor, full of grace and warmth, I am blissfully less aware of myself. Hallelujah. If I just keep my eyes on the teacher, my feet are right where they need to be. That’s reason enough to come back for more.
I Get by with a Little Help from my Friends
“I get by with a little help from my friends.” I love The Beatles. (Clearly, I named my memoir in part because of their iconic music.) For the last two months, I have completely gotten by financially with a little help from you, my friends and family. As you know, I’ve been raising support to self-publish my book, Finding Home with The Beatles, Bob Dylan and Billy Graham.
My original financial goal was, $9,000. Through big and small donations, I have raised $4,515!
I am writing to some of you who have already contributed, and to some of you who have said you would still like to give a donation. I plan to end my fundraising campaign in the next two weeks. That is, by the end of August. Jess’s Go Fund Me account
How I’ve applied your contributions
- $3,149 for printing, editing, layout, design and consulting services to West Bow Press. In addition, when my book is launched this fee covers Google ads, Amazon ads and Barnes and Nobles “Preview” features.
- $1,200 for copyright permission to use The Beatles lyrics in my book
- $250 to the artist who painted the book cover design.
As you can see by the numbers, the money friends and family have contributed was essential to the cost of publishing my book in a timely and professional manner. In every way, God is in the details! B. Sterling and I are overwhelmed with gratitude for your help in making this dream come true for me.
When my book is printed and ready to be launched (December, most likely) in bookstores and online, I will need to do some small book tours and readings. This requires traveling expenses and reprints of my book for promotional purposes. If you would still like to contribute to these expenses I would be very grateful.
I will keep the Go Fund Me accound open till the end of August if you would still like to contribute.
I am so thrilled that soon I will be able to share my memoir with you.
May You Flourish
A quick follow up to my last meditations post. Here I am on a beautiful summer night two weeks ago, just as I’d hoped to be, reading aloud to my sister the birthday toast I’d written for her 40th birthday.
It wasn’t writing that will change the world or alter any decisions in Congress. It was personal. It was a word for her…a charge. A charge for her to flourish in God’s will throughout the next 40 years. Below is a copy of the toast.Maybe you will find a charge/challenge for yourself in it. May you flourish!
May You Flourish
I’ve been watching you, sis all my life.
It’s what second children do. And I’d say you’ve managed to flourish in the first 40 years of life.
- You had a storied childhood and out of the four of us children, your memory of it is most vivid.
- You’ve traveled the world; you got a great education
- You even contributed your talents to the last years of BG’s ministry.
- You have flourished as a mother: four beautiful, gifted children growing in grace and knowledge of God. 4!
- Plentiful friends who come to you for wisdom and humor. Come to you to be refreshed.
- A beautiful home ( or three ) where people gravitate.
- You are cultured, stylish and well read.
And now Heather, here you are turning 40. The dictionary defines the word flourish as: for some thing or someone to be in one’s prime, to thrive and prosper, to be at the height of influence.
So, what does it look like for Heather to flourish from here on out? What will it look like for you, sis to flourish even more fully in the next 40 years?
Ultimately that’s a conversation for you and the Lord, and maybe Vern can be in on it too.
But here’s what I imagine for you, sister:
- You press in to God more that ever. You untether yourself from the culture’s shifting definitions of success, beauty and style.
- Maybe flourishing will look like caring for someone– a child, an orphan, a family member, a friend, in a more selfless ways than you can imagine, that will push you to your limit and daily dependence on God… but you do it, and you thrive.
- Or maybe flourishing will mean you take on a role at church that seems so out your comfort zone, but somehow fans into you the hands and feet of Christ, like you never could have imagined.
- Or you get very honest with neighbors about their need for Christ.
- Or you give away your possessions to the poor.
(Or you just give away all Vern’s hoarded stuff to the poor.)
- Or you become the Young Life parents. The ones kids know they can turn to.
- Maybe you do something in Belize, you really do the ministry. Open yourself wide to God and say yes without reservation and flourish.
You take the next step.
The point is, you flourish in the perfect will of God.
My Words for You, Tied up in a Bow
Since I’m not writing my first book anymore, people have asked what I am writing these days. I‘ve been wrestling some new poems down on the page, but recently I started writing a birthday present. That’s right. I’m writing a birthday present…an essay to my sister, Heather.
In a few weeks I’ll travel with my husband and kids up to Philadelphia where Heather lives. My parents, siblings and the whole gaggle of grand kids will gather on June 22 to celebrate her 40th birthday. And (if they’ll indulge me) I’d like to read aloud to her the piece I’m working on. It’s my birthday gift to her.
In her definitive book, Bird by Bird on writing and life, Anne Lamott details two books she wrote that started as presents. Literally, she sat down every day to write the books as gifts. She says, “Publication is not going to change your life or solve your problems….[there are] other reasons to write that may surprise a writer….I wrote [the books] for them as carefully and soulfully as I could—which is, needless to say, how I wish I could write all the time.”
I wrote my first book, Finding Home with The Beatles, Bob Dylan and Billy Graham for me alone. I’ve never been more tender to myself than I was when writing my childhood story. I had to be gentle with myself, to coax out the truth from the timid child within.
And because I got the little girl inside me to finally speak up, I am freer than ever. Free to share my writing voice. Free to believe my words are a gift.
Why I am Raising Money to Publish my Book
Fundraising. This is a term very foreign to me. Some people do this for a living. Philanthropic geniuses. They study psychological motivation and they study and sociological trends. Some people know exactly how to get a dollar of charity out of people. I don’t know much about that.
But I do know that for the first time in the entire 6 year process of writing my memoir, I need people. I need charity. B. Sterling and I are living on one income. When Iris was born, I deeply wanted the chance to be a stay-at-home-mom. So we tweaked the budget and B. Sterling took on extra gigs and opportunities to teach music lessons. Even still, our budget is real tight. There’s nothing sexy about my food pantry on one income. Bulk, off-brand cereal. Long, bland loaves of wheat bread. Big, heavy jars of peanut butter. And bananas. We keep Chiquita in business at 42 cents a pound.
So when it came time to publish my book with West Bow Press, B. Sterling and I looked at each other and said the same thing aloud, “Where are we going to get $9,000?” We have an emergency fund, but publishing my book isn’t exactly a family financial emergency. So we prayed about it. And we talked with other people who have published books. And fundraising from friends and family rose to the surface as our solution for the cost of publishing.
This is why I am using GoFundMe to raise money to publish my book. Some people have already contributed money to my campaign. I wish I could say eloquently how grateful this makes me. It’s somewhere in the realm of weepy + lushy. Like when you’ve had a bit too much wine on less than a full night of sleep. I end up wanting to cry on their shoulders and promise, “Oh my gosh, thank you! I’ll dedicate my next book to you!”
You get my sentiment? My heart swells at your kindness. At your belief in my creativity. At your hope for my future writing career. Nothing has said love to me lately in quite the same way.
Start a New Project (that other one is as finished as it can be)
I’ve had a lot of writing teachers over the years. The good ones have shaped my craft, but one in particular changed my life. His name was Thom Williams, and he was my English teacher my senior year of high school. No other writing teacher has influenced me more directly.
One day in my senior year I brought Mr. Williams a poem I had been working on for weeks. I had poured my heart into the thing. I felt that everything was riding on his good opinion of it… I bit my fingernails…
He read it carefully, then set it down and said, “That’s a real poem.”
He tapped it once then looked straight at me and added, “Now go write another one.”
It’s taken me years to understand his simple directive that day. But more than ever I do understand.
I’ve written a book. And I’m proud of it. But now it’s time to move on to the next project. Maybe I can say this in other ways. For an artist that works in oils: it’s time to stop staring at your completed painting. It’s as done as it can be. Set it aside and prime a new canvas.
My husband is a song-writer. He wrote a new song and played it for me last week. It wasn’t his best. It wasn’t his worst. Time to write another song.
Something in us doesn’t like to move on from our creations. Creating art elevates us. We want critics and friends to squat down with us and stare forever at our creative babies. Stare and coo and praise us ad naseeum.
“No one has ever created something as fabulous! You’re a genius. This is the pinnacle of all creative endeavors.”
In fact, those would be terrible friends. No one should tell you that you’ve created the best of anything. How could you ever get up and write again after such a loaded compliment? The pressure would paralyze and immobilize.
My book will be published. It’s in the works. So I stop reading it and gently set it aside, like the overly tired baby that just needs to cry herself to sleep. And I start a new poem.
Start a new project today. Stop clinging to the one you think reflects your best self. Open your hands, lift up your eyes and gather new inspiration.
The late Thom Williams
Write What You Know
Write what you know. Not what you studied in college. So you degreed in Middle Ages weaponry. That’s still not what you know.
What you know is tennis because your father made you play every Saturday of your young life. You hate the sport now, but you could write a book about the feel of a tennis racket in hand. You could detail for pages the sound of tennis shoes on that green painted court. You know tennis.
I have a friend who wants to write romantic, historical fiction. She loves the Renaissance period in English history. This friend also happened to grow up with two alcoholic parents. One night on my deck she recounted her childhood. Her voice took on authority when she described alcoholism. It’s what she knows.
I think I might have offended this friend when I said, “I don’t want to read your novels unless there’s at least one drunkard in every story.”
“Why?” she asked, alarmed.
“Because you know about drunks, and your characters should show it. Use that deep knowledge in your writing.” Write what you know.
What you know usually isn’t sexy. It can be scary to go digging through old closets. Sometimes it’s surprising what surfaces.
Turns out I know about fishing. My father took his four children fishing every summer of my childhood. Strangely, my body understands lures, choppy waves under a boat and the smell of fish carcass. Not exactly material for small talk at parties, but it’s what I know deep down, so I’d better use it my writing. Even in my book about growing up inside the Billy Graham Evangelistic Association, you’ll find traces of this fish knowledge in my metaphors.
My authority as a writer hinges on my willingness to use what I know. We don’t get to choose our childhoods; however, what we endured, experienced or suffered becomes our authority. So then, what do you know?
Big Endorsement
Even as I wait and hope for other publishing offers, I work at being my own best champion for my book. I’m discovering that I can’t expect anyone else to get excited about my writing if I don’t “cast my net wide” so to speak.
With this intention, I went after a big endorsement. I sent my manuscript to Billy Graham’s personal assistant of 30 years, David Bruce. He is a nationally recognized spokesperson for the Graham family, and he is on the board of directors for the Billy Graham Evangelistic Association. He is a discerning, wise man whom the Graham family has trusted for decades. To claim his public approval of my work would be a big endorsement.
So it was an honor to receive an email from his last week praising my book. He called my writing, “refreshing and insightful” and said he’d be sincerely pleased to give his public endorsement of my memoir. David Bruce’s public statement is as follows:
“In Finding Home with The Beatles, Bob Dylan and Billy Graham, Archer takes three cultural forces and braids them tenderly. The result is a charming, honest girl’s story of finding home through the icons of her childhood.”
The Perfect Fit
It doesn’t look like this publishing deal I’ve been offered is the right fit. My vanity and impatience would like to force the contract to work for me– like Cinderella’s stepsisters trying to wedge their feet into the wrong shoe. But all indicators (advice from lawyers and my agent) say, “Not the right fit for your book.” This is hard to hear. Because the aftermath of such advice means more waiting. More waiting for the perfect fit to land at my doorstep.
Speaking of waiting, shoes and doorsteps…
Ace needed a new pair of sneakers, so we went to the store this Saturday. We found a style to suit his narrow foot, but they didn’t have his size in stock. We could order the shoes, and they’d arrive on our doorstep in 3 to 7 business days. I knelt down to explain this to Ace. Well, you can picture his reaction. It’s the same one I had when I heard the publishing deal wasn’t right for me.
“But I want the shoes right now!!!”
On Sunday and Monday morning he lifted his moppy head from the pillow with, “Are my shoes here yet?” I hated having to say, “Not yet, buddy. But soon.”
Then yesterday we walked home from his preschool. When we turned up our street, the UPS truck pulled up to us. “Hey,” called the driver, “you live at 3405, right? Left a package for you on your doorstep!”
Ace took off like a bullet in his worn out, tired old shoes.
He ran all the way up our street, yelling behind him, “Come on, Mom! Come on Iris!” (Iris bouncing around in the stroller as we ran.) You’d have thought by our glee that it was a shoebox full of money waiting for us.
I let him tear open the package. Receipt, cardboard, that tissue paper they stuff into shoes flying all over our front yard. And then he slipped his foot into the new shoe, velcroed it in place and smiled up at me.
“The perfect fit, Mom.”
I believe there’s a perfect publishing fit for my book. When it comes, you can guarantee I’ll run toward it like Ace did. Till then I lift my moppy head off the pillow each morning. I pray, write, email publishers and help my kids put on their shoes. When I watch Ace run fast in the sunshine, I squint and smile and lean into my faith.