Read the winners of our August writing challenge!
 |
| (Photo by Keira Burton) |
Write about a turning point in your life...
We're excited to announce the winners of the SCWC's August Writing Challenge--and to let you read the wonderful submissions below.
The challenge? To write a true story about a turning point in your ife.
(Want to participate in our monthly challenges? We announce them first in the Southern Christian Writers Conference Facebook group. Join us if you haven't already!)
We received a large number of submissions to our August challenge (you provided us with so many inspiring stories!), but we had to narrow them down to a few winners. Boy, was that a hard decision!
We received a large number of submissions to our August challenge (you provided us with so many inspiring stories!), but we had to narrow them down to a few winners. Boy, was that a hard decision!
Congratulations to the following winners for August:
1st place: Suzanne Nichols
2nd place: Vicki Moats
3rd place: Jeff Greer
Honorable mention: Gail Landraf
Enjoy the stories below.
"Close the Window, Open the Door"
by Suzanne D. Nichols
To this day, I still cringe at the memory, at the level of selfishness that motivated such detachment. At the time, I wasn’t aware of how the surrounding life-transitions were affecting me.
Our world today often ignores true and godly genius.
Before this child was born, I was a working mom in a field ruled by tight schedules, making people happy, on my feet all day, moving from one appointment to the next. But, with one son ready to enter Kindergarten, and a new baby to care for, my husband and I made the decision that I would not return to the business world. I settled into a new schedule—slower, easier, quieter—at least during the school hours.
Perhaps I slid into the new routine with too much abandon. Caution and discernment dwindled. The television, with its shifting array of entertainment, became an addiction. The strongest hold came in the form of soap operas. They consumed so much of my daily routine I could hardly think of anything else. I loved the adventure. I loved the excitement of trying to solve a mystery. My emotions were stirred by the romance and the sadness and the drama and the turmoil going on in the lives of the characters. I knew it wasn’t real, but it did a very real thing in my heart.
The portrayal of the characters’ lifestyles caused a desire for beautiful, expensive clothes, jewelry, houses, and cars. I became discontented with everything God had given me. The drama constantly replaying in my mind distracted me from fulfilling God’s purpose for me as a mother and a wife.
But my gracious heavenly Father was not willing to leave me in bondage.
When my sons were about nine and four, I began participating in a Bible study at my church. Through that study, I realized the true depths of my spiritual, physical, mental, and emotional imprisonment. The admonition of II Corinthians 10:5 was especially convicting. The words, “… take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ,” pinpointed the painful truth: my thoughts were not obedient to Christ. I also recognized my need for help in breaking free of this addiction. The proclamation of II Corinthians 10:4 brought me hope and direction—"The weapons we fight with are not the weapons of the world. On the contrary, they have divine power to demolish strongholds.”
I met with two dear Christian friends, confessed my sin to them, and asked them to pray with me and for me, and then to keep me accountable. We prayed together—and cried together—but I left flooded with peace and motivated to allow God to make the needed change in me. I returned home and, for the first time in four years, did not automatically reach for the TV remote. Instead of turning on the soaps, I tuned into Christian radio and began filling my ears and my mind and my heart with Christian music and Bible teaching. I closed the window on the culture’s view of what was permissible for my entertainment, and flung open the door to what God said was profitable for my soul.
As my focus changed, my mind and heart cleared. Creativity that had dried up over years of neglect, began to flow again. Time that had once been wasted became purposeful as I studied the Bible more intently and prayed more specifically. Biblical accounts of God’s movement in people’s lives, scriptural truths, and even my pastor’s sermons stirred poetry and songs to pour forth.
I began co-teaching in “Bible Drill,” a scripture memory and Bible skills program for children and youth in my church. In the latter half of my thirty-plus years in the program, I developed a leadership guide and learning aids for my students. Later, by request of the Children’s Minister, I created a companion curriculum for younger children. Studying the scriptures and developing ways to help children learn and apply God’s word opened my own heart to a deeper love for the Bible. As I retired from the Bible Drill program, God directed me toward a different purpose for my writing skills. A friend invited me to attend a Christian writers conference with her. The door I’d opened years earlier, swung wider as I welcomed the advice of fellow writers and drew on the expertise of successful authors, publishers, editors, and agents. At that conference, I learned about Word Weaver’s International—a Christian organization dedicated to training writers to become skillful, effective authors. I soon joined with other writers to establish a Word Weaver’s chapter in my area. Six years after our first meeting, I am still soaking up wisdom, and applying the advice of my fellow writers.
The benefits of opening that door have been astounding! What I once called “an interest,” I now call “my craft.” And where I once only called myself “a writer,” I can now call myself “a published author.” I’ve watched God use my writing to encourage folks I’ve never met. I’ve even received a few honors and awards for my compositions. None of these blessing would have been possible if I had remained in bondage to the culture’s empty promises.
Our world is filled with distractions that Satan can use to draw us away from God’s best. I am not immune from his efforts to keep me from fulfilling God’s purposes in my life. Fear, procrastination, interruptions—to name a few—can press in on me and hold me hostage when I give in to their power.
But God is faithful to remind me those are closed windows—unequipped to allow the good things He
has in store. He turns my heart to His open door, leading to what is profitable for my soul and
purposeful to His kingdom.
September 11th, 2001, changed America forever. It was, however, only a prelude to the day which changed everything for me.
has in store. He turns my heart to His open door, leading to what is profitable for my soul and
purposeful to His kingdom.
"The Day that Changed Everything"
by Vicki Moats
Our son, barely out of his teens, was in the Marines headed for Australia when the crew of his ship received orders to head straight to Afghanistan. He had joined the service in peacetime. No one anticipated the crumbling of buildings and pluming of smoke that signaled an attack on American soil. Now, he was being shipped to a land of rock and sand to fight an enemy that could evaporate into the hills. No mother’s heart is fully prepared for this.
September passed with several communiques from our son and a constant supply of CNN war updates which I shared with my parents who lived in front of us. I was their only child, and our son was their only grandson. I knew they were as anxious for news as we were.
The beginning of October came with little change. If the leaves displayed their colors or fell from the trees entirely, I didn’t notice. My routine had settled into teaching middle school during the days and finding all the war news I could in the evenings. With our daughter now in college and our son overseas, my husband and I existed in the shell of our former home.
So it was that on October 9 th I went to school for a teacher workday/staff development day. With over twenty years’ experience, I was sitting in the library trying to appear interested in theories on how-to-teach. Suddenly, the library door swung open, and the Assistant Principal motioned for me to come.
I knew. I knew instantly. No words were needed. I saw everything in his eyes. I knew our son was dead. Movies do not depict this moment well enough. How do you portray the ripping out of part of a heart? I held time captive in my mind and willed it to stand still - to not move forward to those words I was about to hear - but time can only be held captive so long.
Mr. W. looked kindly down at me and spoke slowly as if that would soften the shock, “Your parents have been in an accident.”
If the mind produced sound, the gears in my head would have screeched to a rusty halt, paused in silent non-understanding, and then inched forward in a sluggish reckoning.
“Mmm. My parents?” I stuttered.
“Yes. Your mother has been airlifted to Charlotte, and your father is in critical condition at the Regional Medical Center.”
Thoughts intruded: Parents? My parents? It’s not our son. Our son is alive! Then the guilty thought: You are relieved it’s your parents?
“Are you okay to drive to the hospital?” the Assistant Principal asked.
“Yes. Yes, I’m okay.” I replied. Okay? How could I be okay? On the way to the hospital, I thought about my parents who were typical of post WWII parents. My dad had served as an electrician on a Navy submarine. My mother worked in one of those factories that sprang up during the war. They had lived through war time.
Their faith was quiet and strong as steel. I thought about how my mother kept extra food in the house to make sure some neighbor children had enough to eat. My father helped anyone who needed it. I even remembered the cold, December day my dad left our Christmas dinner to go help a neighbor with his broken plumbing. Memories such as these as these tumbled over each other. over and over until I
arrived at the hospital.
Once there, I was not allowed to see my father, who was in surgery but was assigned a private waiting room where my husband joined me. I was there, still silently praying, when I received word that Momma had died in Charlotte. My precious, little mother who read me to sleep as a child, who loved me
unconditionally, this precious soul was gone. No goodbye. No lingering plans. Just the swift guillotine of death. She was alive. Then, she wasn’t.
arrived at the hospital.
Once there, I was not allowed to see my father, who was in surgery but was assigned a private waiting room where my husband joined me. I was there, still silently praying, when I received word that Momma had died in Charlotte. My precious, little mother who read me to sleep as a child, who loved me
unconditionally, this precious soul was gone. No goodbye. No lingering plans. Just the swift guillotine of death. She was alive. Then, she wasn’t.
I was in shock. Before I could recover, a member of the hospital staff entered the room with a remarkable request. The woman whose truck had hit my parents’ car wanted to see me.
I was not particularly keen to see her, but they were concerned for her well-being, so I agreed. She entered the room in a trembling mess. Her face was red and puffy from crying, and the tears were still streaming down her face. She kept saying over and over, “I’m sorry. I tried to stop! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit them.”
She was sorry. My parents were dead and dying, and she was sorry. What could I possibly say to the woman who killed my mother and left my father fighting for his life? I had always known my parents’ strength of faith. Mine had never really been tested; but on this day, in this room, I felt its presence in me.
There are times in our lives when we don’t ask ourselves, “What would Jesus do?” Since He lives in us,
He just does it. The Jesus in me comforted and absolved her as best I could.
He just does it. The Jesus in me comforted and absolved her as best I could.
Shortly after she left, I received word that my father had died on the operating table.
On the morning of October 9th, I had parents. By the afternoon of the same day, both of my parents were dead, I had comforted their killer, and our son was still in harm’s way. I felt like a shell-shocked soldier come home from the war.
All battles are not fought on foreign soil. Some of the toughest battles are fought on the battlefield of the soul. There are no medals. No acclaim. Just the calm assurance of a faith that carries us through each battle and steadfastly leads us home.
My eyes kept straying to the rearview mirror to confirm the disgust for the man in the reflection. The road faded into the background like the shadows swallowing the daylight as I stared at myself. The overwhelming weight of what I had just done filled my heart and my spirit with revulsion. Persistent tears welled up in my eyes as I was confronted with the man I had become… I suddenly came to grips with the fact that I was defective somewhere deep in my core. The years I’d spent in self-loathing over my struggle were boiling over.
“What is wrong with me?” I screamed to no one at the top of my lungs. “How did I get to this place?”
I didn’t even know where “this place” was, but it was dark, terrifying. The pit I was in was so deep that I could hardly see any light or land.
There had to be something deeply flawed in me, to make me do the things that I swore I would never do. For years I had promised myself, “I won’t go that far.” Until I did.
I was constantly drawing lines, trying to create limits. But I soon crossed those too. With each broken boundary, I felt God's disappointment toward me, His head shaking side to side as He watched me surrender to my own foolish, selfish desires. I was drinking salt water… and the more I drank, the thirstier I got! I begged God to remove this thorn in my flesh; to cauterize every one of my fleshly desires. And when He didn’t, I questioned how much He really cared.
Yet, to who else could I run? Who had the cure for my disease of self? I knew God was my only hope. All I knew to do was reach out to a man of God.
For forty years, my friend and mentor was there to take my call whenever I called for his guidance. His answer was upbeat and cheerful, until he heard my sobs, and the despair in my voice. Filled with shame, I blurted out to him what I had done. His advice was quick and crystal clear: confess to your church leadership.
“Find the three most spiritual men in your congregation and come clean to them, letting them know that you will accept their counsel,” he told me.
First, I confessed to my family; thankfully they were still committed to me and my healing. Three days later I told my church leaders. Although they were kind and gentle with me initially, they asked for my resignation. My job and income disappeared immediately.
Grasping at any thread of hope that presented itself, I heard about a meeting for addicts.
“I am an addict?” I thought.
I was searching for anything to salvage my life and my career so I readily, but somewhat reluctantly, attended unsure of what to expect. It was instantly clear I didn’t belong. Nonetheless, I was emotionally broken and willing to try anything to escape the self-created chaos. I took my seat in the circle and listened to each person’s declaration. When it came my turn to speak, I spoke the words hesitantly:
“I’m Jeff, I might be an addict,” although I didn’t actually believe that word applied to me.
As the meeting progressed, I kept quiet, not daring to confess to strangers what led me there that night. However, like a first-time church visitor, I heard some things at this meeting that I had never heard before, statements that were as fresh to me as an early morning sunrise. They were the first steps in the 12 Steps of recovery process:
“We admitted we were powerless over our addiction — that our lives had become unmanageable.”
“We came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.”
Nothing else said that night stuck with me as those two “scriptural” truths did. They may as well have been spoken by God and carved into stone just for me! Whether or not I believed myself to be an addict, those first two steps pierced me, they were “sharper than any double-edged sword, penetrating” my spirit.
My life had indeed become unmanageable. I was powerless. And the only power compelling enough to restore my sanity was God Himself – I knew that after all my failed attempts to heal myself. I walked out of that meeting not ready to fully embrace the label of “addict,” but I felt like I had heard the outline of a plan to get me fixed. More importantly, I met people who were struggling, just like I was.
As I began my recovery journey, I was convinced that my background as a minister would hasten my healing. But that’s not how recovery works. My trek was filled with stops and starts, momentary failures and periods of sobriety. As I struggled to reclaim my life, my wife decided that it was too much. I had caused more damage than her heart could overcome. She asked for a divorce. It was another personal kick in the teeth: in addition to losing my job, my finances, and my career, I lost my family as well.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have confessed,” I often wondered. “Life could have been easier if I hadn’t. If only I had hidden my addiction a little while longer.”
This was the lie that I repeated often... and believed. However, 12-Step work demands rigorous honesty, self-reflection, and trusting that God will make all things right if we surrender to His will. It became obvious to me that His will included my absolute dependence on Him, no matter what took place around me. I pressed on in my bid to rid myself of my cravings.
It took four years, but today I celebrate my sobriety. I accept that I am never too far from descending back into the hell of my old life, because I’m Jeff… and I am an addict.
All battles are not fought on foreign soil. Some of the toughest battles are fought on the battlefield of the soul. There are no medals. No acclaim. Just the calm assurance of a faith that carries us through each battle and steadfastly leads us home.
"Out of the Pit"
by Jeff Greer
“What is wrong with me?” I screamed to no one at the top of my lungs. “How did I get to this place?”
I didn’t even know where “this place” was, but it was dark, terrifying. The pit I was in was so deep that I could hardly see any light or land.
There had to be something deeply flawed in me, to make me do the things that I swore I would never do. For years I had promised myself, “I won’t go that far.” Until I did.
I was constantly drawing lines, trying to create limits. But I soon crossed those too. With each broken boundary, I felt God's disappointment toward me, His head shaking side to side as He watched me surrender to my own foolish, selfish desires. I was drinking salt water… and the more I drank, the thirstier I got! I begged God to remove this thorn in my flesh; to cauterize every one of my fleshly desires. And when He didn’t, I questioned how much He really cared.
Yet, to who else could I run? Who had the cure for my disease of self? I knew God was my only hope. All I knew to do was reach out to a man of God.
For forty years, my friend and mentor was there to take my call whenever I called for his guidance. His answer was upbeat and cheerful, until he heard my sobs, and the despair in my voice. Filled with shame, I blurted out to him what I had done. His advice was quick and crystal clear: confess to your church leadership.
“Find the three most spiritual men in your congregation and come clean to them, letting them know that you will accept their counsel,” he told me.
First, I confessed to my family; thankfully they were still committed to me and my healing. Three days later I told my church leaders. Although they were kind and gentle with me initially, they asked for my resignation. My job and income disappeared immediately.
Grasping at any thread of hope that presented itself, I heard about a meeting for addicts.
“I am an addict?” I thought.
I was searching for anything to salvage my life and my career so I readily, but somewhat reluctantly, attended unsure of what to expect. It was instantly clear I didn’t belong. Nonetheless, I was emotionally broken and willing to try anything to escape the self-created chaos. I took my seat in the circle and listened to each person’s declaration. When it came my turn to speak, I spoke the words hesitantly:
“I’m Jeff, I might be an addict,” although I didn’t actually believe that word applied to me.
As the meeting progressed, I kept quiet, not daring to confess to strangers what led me there that night. However, like a first-time church visitor, I heard some things at this meeting that I had never heard before, statements that were as fresh to me as an early morning sunrise. They were the first steps in the 12 Steps of recovery process:
“We admitted we were powerless over our addiction — that our lives had become unmanageable.”
“We came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.”
Nothing else said that night stuck with me as those two “scriptural” truths did. They may as well have been spoken by God and carved into stone just for me! Whether or not I believed myself to be an addict, those first two steps pierced me, they were “sharper than any double-edged sword, penetrating” my spirit.
My life had indeed become unmanageable. I was powerless. And the only power compelling enough to restore my sanity was God Himself – I knew that after all my failed attempts to heal myself. I walked out of that meeting not ready to fully embrace the label of “addict,” but I felt like I had heard the outline of a plan to get me fixed. More importantly, I met people who were struggling, just like I was.
As I began my recovery journey, I was convinced that my background as a minister would hasten my healing. But that’s not how recovery works. My trek was filled with stops and starts, momentary failures and periods of sobriety. As I struggled to reclaim my life, my wife decided that it was too much. I had caused more damage than her heart could overcome. She asked for a divorce. It was another personal kick in the teeth: in addition to losing my job, my finances, and my career, I lost my family as well.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have confessed,” I often wondered. “Life could have been easier if I hadn’t. If only I had hidden my addiction a little while longer.”
This was the lie that I repeated often... and believed. However, 12-Step work demands rigorous honesty, self-reflection, and trusting that God will make all things right if we surrender to His will. It became obvious to me that His will included my absolute dependence on Him, no matter what took place around me. I pressed on in my bid to rid myself of my cravings.
It took four years, but today I celebrate my sobriety. I accept that I am never too far from descending back into the hell of my old life, because I’m Jeff… and I am an addict.
"Thank you, Mr. Berryman"
by Gail Landraf
Our world today often ignores true and godly genius.
Unless you have stumbled across his teachings by mistake, you might not have heard of this man named Jerome Berryman. He was a master of bringing children’s hearts to the place of knowing God.
If we had more time, I could recall a million honors and degrees he obtained during his lifetime of hard work. His credentials in the field of childhood theology are amazing. Yet; what I loved was his heart for
children and the magical way he stayed faithful to their cause as he developed unique new methods for expressing God’s love.
children and the magical way he stayed faithful to their cause as he developed unique new methods for expressing God’s love.
Jerome Berryman wrote lessons called “Godly Play.”
My first experience with these lessons happened when a girl visited our local congregation. She artfully introduced us to Jerome Berryman’s teaching methods. This young lady told us three simple little stories. Twenty-five years later, those three stories still hold a special residence inside my heart. Over the years I’ve added many more Godly Play stories to this collection.
These children’s stories were the same biblical stories we had been teaching children forever, but it was the way they were presented that had a lasting effect; even on adults. I began to research the teaching methods of this great storyteller. It was the beginning of a life-long journey. Dr. Berryman’s stories taught me more about life than the children I eventually taught his stories to.
Rev. Berryman held the opinion that young children were not empty vessels just waiting to be filled with the words and ideas of religious teachers. God would teach them what they needed to know if wise adults could simply sew the seeds and stand back to let God guide each child.
Jerome Berryman held the high thought that children had known God already, even before their birth. His theory was that these little ones simply needed the proper tools to give them the language with which to express this God they already knew to the world. It was the language of storytelling through play.
Perhaps this same theology was on the mind of Jesus as he once forbad his disciples from keeping the little children from coming to him. Jesus knew that the innocence of childhood was as close to God as most of us ever get to be. To find this heart-of-a-child as an adult is a very hard thing. Satan and the world will always try to seal it away. That is why many adults have trouble teaching young children in a way with which they are glad to learn.
As we go through this life, the world often tries to change and rearrange us, often veering us away from our God-given purposes. Adults should never let their wounds of the world be forced upon the religious formation of young children. The formative years of a child are very important to their future.
Jerome Berryman was all about teaching properly. He recognized that God’s timing was not at all like our timing. He allowed that developing of holy time into his teachings. Every lesson started and ended with the sentence “we have all the time that we need.” Nothing was ever rushed.
He recognized that children should feel free and unencumbered in their joyful approach to a God who loves them with abundance. His theory was to remove the fear of a “Church God” who required strict discipline and rote-learning for every little thing. Instead He promoted coming freely before God with joy, worship and adoration. This teaching technique presented a God who could sit inside the circle of a story with little children and play the story out with them. It was all about playing, and not a bit about learning. It was about the children spending time with God (not the teacher.)
The Godly Play classroom was totally different from the school classroom. It was full of adventures and fun. Worship developed naturally and in its own time. Hence, the children learned and remembered, even the tiny little details of God’s stories. Every lesson ended with wondering questions which had no wrong answers. The questions were simply designed to help children think through and express their relationship with God. As the child grew, the significance of the questions remained. This helped them to stretch their answers further because the wonder of it all encouraged them to come closer and closer to God.
When my own children were young I taught them the stories. This was a very beautiful life-changing period of time for me. I got to see those living around me come alive because God was actively living inside each of them.
Now I get to play these stories with my grandchildren who have come so close to God that they too know His stories in their everyday lives. My Mother even enjoys listening with us.
I love how the blessings from Berryman have blessed four generations of our family. The Godly Play stories of The Great Family have held our own family together over the years.
Today Jerome Berryman is telling his stories in eternity. Someday I will go there too and meet him face-to-face. I will tell him how his calling to work in the theology of childhood changed my life and the life of those that I love.
Today Jerome Berryman is telling his stories in eternity. Someday I will go there too and meet him face-to-face. I will tell him how his calling to work in the theology of childhood changed my life and the life of those that I love.
So, thank you Rev. Berryman for bringing so many of us into the place of knowing the significance of the heart-of-the-child. Godly Play teachings will live on. Your life was a golden vessel used by God in a mighty way for changing the world.
And remember what you always taught us? It was the fact that; “every beginning has an ending and every ending has a new beginning.” God is like that, isn’t He?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Want to submit to our next SCWC Writing Challenge?
The challenge for September is this:
Get in a Christmas mood (even if we still have a few months to go)! Write a true story related to any aspect of the Christmas season in the South. The stories can be humorous, emotional, mysterious, spiritual, light-hearted...whatever tone you want to communicate with your reader. The maximum word count is 2000 words, and the deadline to submit is Sept. 20. Email to scwritersconference@gmail.com with “Southern Christmas” in the subject line.
And, the best part of the September challenge? We'll be selecting stories that are submitted to us for inclusion in a paperback and ebook coming from the Southern Christian Writers Conference this Christmas season. The top three winners will be published here on the blog AND published in the book; other submitted stories will also be considered for the book.
We can't wait to hear from you!
Comments
Post a Comment