Category: Community

Being Holiday Sad
Community · Freedom · spiritual growth

Being Holiday Sad

Jacquelyn Sill3 Comments

sad-holiday-dogIt’s back! You feel it in the crisp autumn air, you hear it in the haunting voice of Karen Carpenter, and if you’re highly observant, you see it in the eyes of the folks directing you to insert your debit card into the chip reader. (Sidenote: do NOT EVER pull that card out early…you do not want to see what happens.)

What you are sensing is not only nostalgia from listening to the same songs you’ve listened to your entire life. It is not that the entire nation collectively agreeing to eat (basically) the same entree on the exact same Thursday is giving you an eery “Walking Dead” feeling. No, what you are sensing is more than that, what you are sensing is heightened holiday emotions.

This is wonderful if you are a three-year-old and the emotion is sheer joy over the fact that not only do you finally get to meet Santa Clause face-to-face but eventually he is riding Rudolf to your house and bringing you Paw Patrol toys! However, if you are reading this, you are not three. And the heightened emotions you are experiencing may not feel like a stroll through Winter Wonderland.

For some of us non-three-year-olds the emotions are hard. Damn hard.

There’s such a natural shift to reflectiveness during this winter season. We look back. We remember the past year. Or the year before that. Or the times when our children were small, and we were too _____ (busy, tired, overworked, obligated) and didn’t fully enjoy them. Or we did fully enjoy them…but they grew up anyway.

We rejoice at the profits from our wise investments of time and resources. We are thankful for the healing that God brought to someone we love. We don’t need a gift this season because watching that person celebrate the birth of the Savior means more than any trinket or gift  card. We praise God for the fortitude He gave us to endure that terrible time at school or work. We remember when we didn’t think that time was ever going to pass. 

And then there are the the memories that seem less victorious. We remember people we lost, people we hurt, times we were disappointed. Looking back is a rainbow of celebration and regret.

If we are blessed, we remember the year fondly. And if we are blessed, we may not remember it so fondly. That’s the thing about being blessed–we all are, but some of us still struggle.

clean-up-grocery-cart-rules-healthier-shopping-ftrAnd then there’s the shame that comes with the struggle. Feeling anything but bountifully happy as we shop for our holiday bird can heap extra weight into an already hard to steer shopping cart. I mean, you know what it’s like, right? You grab a cart as you are walking into the store and you realize that the wheel is a little rickety. You stop and look at it for a second, but then you decide, “Naw, I’m good. I’m just grabbing a few things.” Well, as you wander up and down the aisles, dodging the temporary displays of Stouffer’s Stuffing Mix, your cart gets heavier and less manageable. As you turn the corner into the frozen food section, you see that the turkeys have been reduced to .76 a pound. Well, since this is a great deal, you grab one for Thanksgiving dinner with the family and one for the church food drive. Meanwhile, the wheel on the cart is still rickety. The broken wheel didn’t get better just because you got generous.

The same is true for those of us who are blessed beyond measure, but sometimes unexplainably sad. We are wandering through this heartwarming season with a wound that won’t go away. Maybe it’s regret, maybe it’s remorse, maybe it’s something else altogether–but it’s real and even on an ordinary day, our cart has a rickety wheel. When the music, the lights, the trees, and the beauty of the season is added, our cart doesn’t stop being rickety.

And the shame associated with being sad when we’ve much to be thankful for is unmentionable. We are suddenly ungrateful–but we’re not! We are so grateful and thankful for the bounty of blessings, which just increases our shame for being simultaneously sad.

So, what do we do?

Maybe we start by admitting that we need help? Maybe we forsake the social media image of having it all together in order to forge authentic community. I mean, if the cart is truly damaged, why wouldn’t we get help when the burden is greater?

Maybe, just maybe, we simply say, “I feel sad” and we stop judging ourselves. Maybe we stop behaving as if being sad is synonymous with being in sin. Once we stop heaping guilt on ourselves for moments of melancholy we can move through the down times and get to the other side without having isolated ourselves from the people who, on most days, bring us insurmountable joy. Because, after all, it is the most wonderful time of the year.

What I found left me breathless
Community · Freedom · Kimly's Trade

What I found left me breathless

Jacquelyn Sill1 Comment

Dreams come true. Sometimes it feels like a nightmare when it happens, but sometimes it evolves into a better reality than the original dream. In many ways, the latter is what happened with my novel, Where the Water Rages.

When I began knocking on the proverbial publishing door, I had little direction. I used search engines and Twitter to locate the names of publishers and literary agents and I made daily inquiries. All the while, I had a dilemma to overcome. As I searched, I learned that many mainstream publishers weren’t interested in a book with Christian themes, and many Christian publishers wouldn’t touch a book that dealt with themes present in my manuscript.

One day, after receiving umpteen rejections, a publisher began to show interest in the manuscript. Of course, I was shocked by their interest, and as we began the ebb-and-flow of building a deal, I looked for any information on the company. I was unable to believe that a publisher would really be drawn to the project and certain that this was a scam.

I’ll tell you what I learned about my publisher, and then I will tell you why YOU should care.

Kharis Publishing is an up and coming publishing house located in Northwest Arkansas, it’s an imprint of Kharis Media LLC, the leading mass media corporation in Africa. The team at Kharis Publishing is “committed to social empowerment through publishing and literacy initiatives.” The publishing company operates with a two-fold goal.

First, because they recognize how difficult it is for minority and first-time authors to get published, without relying on self-publishing, their goal is to give a voice to such authors. Second, is their unique business plan. This is the part that affects you as a potential reader of Where the Water Rages, and it’s the part that left me breathless:

“The second goal is to empower orphans to take charge of their lives, by building resource centers or mini-libraries within their orphanages so those kids can learn, dream, and grow. For every book sold, we donate $1 towards establishing such resource centers.”

Yep, that’s right. For every single book sold, Kharis Publishing donates $1 to an orphanage.

Why do they do this? Well, it all comes back to Francis Umesiri. Born in rural Nigeria, Francis Umesiri spent each day walking 3 miles to retrieve water for his family, and then he spent the evenings reading borrowed books by the light of a kerosene lantern. The two men who loaned him books challenged him to read as much as possible and to write reports on what he had read.

Today Dr. Francis Umesiri is a Biology professor at John Brown University in Northern Arkansas and the founder of Kharis Publishing. He credits his success in academia with his love for reading and the individuals who took an interest in his life by loaning him books.

As you can imagine, when I learned this, there was no other publisher I wanted to be in contract with. The story I wrote about a little girl who is sold into the slave trade is fiction, but the frustrating reality is that this isn’t fiction for too many children. The innocents who are victimized most often come from living situations where poverty is rampant, and an orphan child living on the streets is an easy target. To a child in a third world country, an orphanage is representative of hope, as often their extended families do not have the resources to care for them. Orphanages give them a chance that they might not otherwise have, but children need more than just food and shelter. To distance themselves from a disadvantaged life, they need knowledge; they need books, computers, and learning materials.

The idea that my fictional manuscript could play a part in empowering a child, in bringing resources for learning to an orphanage left me breathless.

Now, the manuscript is bigger than me, as good is integrated into the sale of each book.

Water ragesAnd this is why you should care. When you purchase Where the Water Rages you aren’t just keeping the wheels of big business spinning, as is often the case with larger publishing houses. No, you are supporting a publishing company who has made it their goal to be the difference in the lives of orphans. You are helping to build a library of books in an orphanage in Uganda, a place where it is difficult for children to acquire the books that are readily available in the United States.

One book, one dollar, every time.

Would you consider visiting Kharis Publishing today and purchasing a copy of Where the Water Rages?

Share this article on Facebook: be a part of my dream and help bring literacy to the life of a child.

Back to Our Future, aka: We’re Moving!
Community · marriage

Back to Our Future, aka: We’re Moving!

Jacquelyn Sill3 Comments


It was 1988, I had been a Christian for less than 2 years, David was one month out of Bible college, and we were three weeks into our marriage, when we left California and drove across the country to Danville, Illinois, where my husband had taken a job as a Youth Pastor. During the transition, people called us “fearless.” Honestly, we weren’t fearless. Clueless, perhaps–but fearless? Not even close.

We learned pretty early on that our lifestyle was different than our peers, as their date nights and toddler’s schedules didn’t revolve around other people’s teenagers. Investing in someone else’s teenager is much like a welcoming a virus into your home, as the joys and trials overtake your thoughts, conversations, and family activities.

In the two decades that followed, we were both blessed and exasperated by the hundreds of young people we encountered living and ministering in the midwest and Southern California. We witnessed teenage friendships evolve into dating relationships that sometimes resulted in marriages, and then we experienced the joy of watching most of those marriages thrive and the grief when some of the marriages ended in divorce. My husband stood beside a young man when the frightened seventeen-year-old told his parents that his girlfriend was pregnant, and thanks to social media, we’ve watched that unplanned child be loved as she grew into a beautiful young woman. To say the least, our lives were positively altered by the teenagers who allowed us to be a part of their lives.

Over the course of the last decade, David’s ministry role within the church shifted. He was subtly ushered into jobs that were highly administrative and less relational. It would take several blog posts to explain how the transition began, how we each responded to and resisted these new roles and the way the undesired change affected his self-esteem, self-confidence, and ultimately our marriage. Mentioning the shift is irrelevant anyway, except in that it eventually frustrated us both to the point of asking questions in regards to what we wanted out of life, and the ways in which we each desired to serve the Lord and the community.

We began asking each other the romanticized question, “If money were no object, what would you do?” My answer was easy and obvious (#amwriting). David’s took months of contemplation to be realized.

After much prayer, consideration, and conversation, David is leaving his career as a Pastor to become a High School teacher.

Days after David made this decision, I woke up with random thoughts of Ruth Bell Graham, wife of Billy Graham. My heart sank as I compared myself to the upstanding woman. I thought, perhaps, if David had married a woman like Ruth, his life might have turned out so differently. Those in church leadership might value all he has to offer.  I blamed myself, the selfishness of my infidelity, for David’s life taking such a dramatic change. I felt as if I robbed him of a great life.

Once I was able to conjugate my shame into words, I shared my brokenness with my husband.

“If you had married someone like Ruth Graham, you wouldn’t be leaving the ministry,” I whispered through restrained tears.

“Who says I’m leaving the ministry?” he responded, “I’ll never stop doing ministry…and besides, if this is what comes of everything that happened, then GOOD! I couldn’t be more pleased,” and in his gentleness, he pulled me out of myself and into his belief.

And, he’s right. I can see how he will love these students and how they will bless his life. This man was created to be involved in the lives of students; he is a natural shepherd, a breathing example of God’s love as it is available through Christ. So, we leave the life we have always known for the life we once knew.

But, where?

95ccea7ce7a76aa1011145a2d49a9c43Perhaps you’ve heard the saying, “the third time is a charm”, but do you know it’s folk history? The saying evolved from a British law, which said any person who survived three hanging attempts would be set free. The law came about in 1885 when a West Country sailor was convicted of murder and sentenced to death by hanging. After three failed attempts, the sailor was imprisoned and later released. He died a free man in the 1940’s.

Likewise, after two attempts at living in the Antelope Valley we are returning for the third time to live in the high desert of California. Beginning August 8th, David will be teaching at a public High School, and we will be investing in the community that has twice before been our home.  We are eager for whatever God has planned as we return to living in the wide open spaces, amid the wild poppies and Joshua Trees. Our hope is that the third time will be a charm, and this will be our final relocation. We have felt for a while that ‘the best is yet to come’, and we see that in going back we are moving forward. 

Disney Dads and Discontentment
Community · Limerence · spiritual growth

Disney Dads and Discontentment

Jacquelyn SillLeave a comment

I look at this unframed black and white photograph of my Dad, my brothers and myself every day. It’s wedged on a shelf near my sunscreen on my bathroom counter. It reminds me that in as much as life is ever changing, some things will always remain the same.

These days, the Sailing Ship Columbia, is docked in Frontierland, and those aboard won’t see 12 flying elephants during their voyage, nor are guests of the Magic Kingdom likely to have a Disney Day with small crowds reminiscent of 1969. These are some definitive changes. But those brave enough to face the stroller-wielding families in Fantasyland will still witness Daddies nestled beside their littles in miniature mammalians while Mommies capture the moment on film.

And on the faces of many of these men, in the picture before the picture that will be posted to social media, there will still be that look of discontent. Throughout time, there have been people who have struggled with being content.

From the day of my first memory, which was around the time of this photo, my Mother has whispered to me, “You and your father are just alike..”

I’ve often wondered if Mom could really see that, or if she created the similarity with her whispers. Either way, she was right. I see it when I look at this snapshot of him with his children. It’s those uncaptured thoughts plummeting the heart downward when everything is–in actuality–just  fine. It’s struggling to be content with the same things we will one day long for; he and I cannot be alone in that one.

We aren’t bad people, and this trait isn’t a flaw incapable of being used for good. Inasmuch as the lack of contentment can lead to wandering and depression, the struggle to acquire contentment is also the core of desire and creativity. My father wanted more, and he allowed this hunger to drive him to build and create things for our family. Being discontent also leads us to the cross, time and again. It’s the desire to have the ache fulfilled from the inside that draws us to the only One who can. Thankfully, that never seems to change either.

Despite the anhedonia-like undertones that could be ascribed to this post, I’m not trying to be disrespectful; I love my father fiercely. I just don’t know how to write honestly about my parents, my childhood, or my life and not acknowledge the good, of which there was much, without also remembering the hard. I have to write what’s true, it’s that part of me that’s just like my dad.

Called to Recall
Community

Called to Recall

Jacquelyn SillLeave a comment

img_2784Recently, I met a young man named Ricardo. While chatting with the dark-eyed teenager, I made reference to Ricky Ricardo. Teenage Ricardo made little response and his blank stare sent a small warning that I may have offended him by comparing him to someone so old. Wanting him to understand the charm of this star from the era of black and white TV, I told him that Ricky Ricardo was considered incredibly handsome in his day.
Teenage Ricardo responded, “I have no idea who he is.”
Naturally, I responded with a gasp and began to trip over my words in an overly exaggerated attempt to make him recall the Latin husband from the iconic TV show.

“Ricky and Lucy! Of course, you know who he is! The husband from I Love Lucy!”

Again, Teenage Ricardo responded, “I don’t know what that is.”

*sigh*

Our  days are dynamic; in a moment and half, a generation of children arrives: we change some diapers, take a few pictures, teach them to drive, and then suddenly — they are grown and having their own brood of babies. It would be foolish to think that without some effort on our part, each generation would naturally know who God is and why He is the reason for the hope that we have. We have to be purposeful in communicating the goodness of the Lord, without being strident or abrasive.
Our call is to be sharing honest, transparent, everyday stories that magnify the ways the Lord has redeemed an impossible situation.

Quite simply, we are called to recall.

We bridge generational gaps with testimony; and yet, sometimes still, we refrain. Something holds us back from sharing how God has pursued us, intervened, and triumphed.

  • Could it be that in sharing how God pursued us, we cannot deny that we wandered?
  • Do we recognize that while describing how God intervened, we have to admit we were harboring sin?
  • Do we hesitate to share the story of God’s triumph, because we will also recall our own humbling?

Wandering, harboring sin, and finally humbled . . . these are painful to admit. The fear of others seeing us in that light can shame us to silence, and succumbing to those fears closes the door for others to know all that God has done, but overcoming those fears will serve a great purpose for our children and grandchildren.

Our simple stories become God’s magnificent masterpiece for future generations. Let them forget the stars of the screen, but never let them forget the One who created the stars of the Universe. 

What Your Waiter Isn’t Telling You
Community

What Your Waiter Isn’t Telling You

Jacquelyn Sill1 Comment

St_Johns_Lutheran_Church_Rabbit_Hill_Alberta_Canada_02AImagine a large family getting ready to attend church on a Sunday morning. This isn’t your family, and it’s not mine either. This is the most unusual tribe you’ve ever met. There are a dozen sisters and just as many brothers, and they share a tiny home. To fully appreciate the chaos in the home you’ll need to know there is only one restroom to facilitate grooming, and there are not enough clean socks for all the feet. Now just to make things even more interesting, there is a language barrier.

This family would obviously struggle in their efforts to get to church in a timely manner. However, upon their arrival to a quaint steeple, hillside church, each teenager would grab the hand of a younger sibling and walk them safely to the fold. The morning crying and the chaos would be history, and the family would be presented as a unified structure of grace.

This is the life of your restaurant waiter.

A food server’s shift is immersed with duality. The conversations, attitudes and behaviors of the staff while they are working with guests in the front of the restaurant are quite different than what takes place back in the kitchen.

To an outsider, the seemingly disrespectful way in which the restaurant staff sometimes speaks to one another when they are in their safe place (a.k.a. the kitchen) might be alarming and even offensive. But truth be told, it is no more startling than the comfortable communication between siblings. The intense and rigorous work a restaurant staff undergoes forms a familial bond.

Perhaps a reader objects, “Wait! The same is true for my staff at (insert company logo here). We are definitely like family!”

I don’t disagree with you, dear reader, but when you leave (insert company logo here) ninety percent of you end up at a restaurant with your closest pals to debrief the week’s events or to complain about your coworkers. In other words, even those of you who don’t work in a restaurant still go to restaurants. They are the most common meeting ground in every developed Nation. For this reason, we are going to concentrate on restaurant workers today.

The nod I want to give to restaurant workers comes from deep within. If this blog post had hands, it wouldn’t be a formal handshake to thank a food server for a job well done. This blog would be a lasting hug to a wealth of people who have reminded me of the importance of building community wherever you land.

Late last Saturday night, at the end of an emotionally and physically exhausting eleven hour day, my husband met me at the restaurant where I have the privilege to serve. I enjoyed a fruity craft beer, and my husband and I shared a Mexican apple pie with cinnamon ice cream and brandy butter on a sizzling fajita skillet; a delicacy that neither of us have any business eating late at night.

Comparison is the thief of joy, and at some point over the weekend, I had allowed the bandit into my head. As I sat with my husband relaying the struggles I was battling, he made a request:

“Name three things about today that you are thankful for.”

I turned my head towards a passageway to the kitchen, and at that precise moment two young women, fellow food servers who are close in age to my adult children, were coming through the doorway.

“Them,” I replied to my husband.

Image-1I shared with my husband that if I were to list the things I am thankful for, these women would be at the top of my list. Yes, I was thankful for the guests I had the chance to serve; thankful for the opportunity to reconnect with returning guests who remembered my name. Yes, I was deeply moved by a heartfelt conversation I had with a young female guest who is a recent widow. Of course, I was humbled and grateful for a couple of great tips. These moments are always welcome, but I am not surprised when I am blessed by obvious good.

This is why I am inspired by the community of people I get to work alongside amid moments that are, more often than not, quite demanding. I am inspired by the playful bickering that happens in the back of the house. The complaining, the inside jokes, the bending of the rules, the calling each other out, the “happy to do it” sarcasm, but all of it with the knowledge that they have my back. On even the longest night, each of us is never alone.

  • Do you have time to take two waters to table 52?
  • Can you box my food on 13?
  • Will you run my bar drinks to 16?
  • I’m caught up, can I help you with anything?
  • Can you follow me with the fajitas?
  • Can you greet 61?

The struggle to do what needs to be done to create an enjoyable experience for our customers is not done merely for tips. Sure, having a great paying job is important and I don’t take that reward lightly, but in all honesty, the entire restaurant staff works hard for each other. Those who wear name tags work hard for the people in the back of the restaurant who aren’t working for tips. If a food server reflects poorly on the restaurant, the customer may never return. If the customer doesn’t return, then there is less money coming in. If there is less money—there may be less hours available for the cooks. If there are less hours for cooks, one of the cooks may lose their job.

That matters to me if the cook is Chuy.

When a position becomes a person our heart is less apathetic toward the situation.

And it’s not just in the chaos that restaurant workers experience familial love. It’s in brokenness. When a team member’s weakness seeps to the surface the family responds. When the weakness is pride it becomes a bad enchilada for everyone; a selfish attitude harnesses a weakness in the tribe making it hard for everyone to do their job. Because of that, I’ve witnessed staff push back and struggle to overcome workers who have become prideful or greedy. The intensity of the job sometimes means the situation is not handled with soft spoken words.

Of course, at other times, soft spoken words sneak around the corner and find you near the walk-in refrigerator.

Two female servers stand rolling silverware. Both have been on their feet for ten plus hours; carrying trays, taking orders, delivering drinks, warming tortillas, restocking glassware, negotiating with cooks, submitting to managers—basically, just doing the job.

One server begins to break down. Tired and fearful, her comparisons have convinced her she is failing at something that she feels she should have mastered by now. The other server, her sister and friend, responds with grace and speaks truth to the situation. These two women were born on opposite sides of the Nation—one is a Jersey girl while the other is a California native. They would have never met were it not for a restaurant in the middle of the Arizona desert. Age and upbringing are irrelevant. Failures and regrets are insignificant. In this moment what matters is love and encouragement.

The younger of the two women, the Jersey girl, disappears for a moment. While she is gone the older woman continues rolling a knife, a spoon, and a fork into a black cloth napkin. Her mind drifts back one year.

Arriving in the town where she and her husband were separated from every other family member, including their children, was surreal. Taking a job in a restaurant because she saw it as “just a job” reminds her of how limited her worldview had become. Every job has significance in the way it shapes the people we become and the community we create. Restaurant workers spend nearly every weekend together—engaging, challenging and conquering rough situations.

The Jersey girl returns holding a wet rag. “I cleaned the high chairs,” she announces.

Image-1(1)Five simple words? No. A novel. These words are lovelier than a psalm or a Shakespearean sonnet.

The Jersey girl just did the Californian’s side work for her.

Hearing the brokenness of the Californian motivated the Jersey girl to respond to her sister with a physical gesture of love. There were no extra tips, and it didn’t help her to get out of the restaurant earlier. In other words, there was nothing “in it for her”.

Maintaining sanity in this particular high intensity, repetitive job is not merely done for the hope of 20% in tips. That money is here today and gone tomorrow. Overcoming self, inspiring another person and experiencing life with a wide variety of uniquely crafted people are not garnishes in life—they are the main course. These are things that money cannot buy.

But, should you stop in for a meal, don’t forget to tip 😉

Grandparent: The Verb I Am
Community

Grandparent: The Verb I Am

Jacquelyn Sill4 Comments

FullSizeRenderMy first grandchild, my granddaughter Isla (pronounced “eye-Luh”…as in Island), turns TWO today. As we prepared to celebrate her little life at a Minnie Mouse themed birthday bash, I got to thinking about the things I would be willing to do for her. I got to thinking about the effect grand-parenting has on those of us who get to walk that path. 

For as long as there have been grandparents there have been toddlers giving their parent’s parents unique pet names. Not every grandparent ends up with the title Grandpa or Grandmother. I have a friend whose grandchildren call her “Googs” and another friend whose granddaughter named her “Dit”. Two and a half years ago when my daughter announced her pregnancy, I was consistently  asked what name I wanted to be called. Most of the time I answered with a simple shrug. The name didn’t matter, as long as it was ascribed to me by my granddaughter.

FullSizeRender5About a year ago my husband had to take a job in another state, which meant we had to relocate. Because I tend to feel things deeply and struggle to see promise when I’m fearful, I was devastated. I felt like our relationship with our granddaughter was going to be severely altered. I feared Isla was too little for us to sustain a long distance relationship. At a friend’s suggestion, each time I would talk to my granddaughter on FaceTime, I would read her a book. Her favorite being Grandma & Me. In the flap book, the little girl, whom we affectionately named “Bacon-Head Isla” asks, “Who’s at the door?” and when the reader lifts the flap, “It’s Grandma!” My granddaughter picked up on the clues, and and gave me a name. I became Door.

Fortunately, that passed, and I am no longer Door. A new name came into play and my granddaughter now calls me “Am”. Yep, Am. I am Am.

FullSizeRender6I have to confess, it’s a little weird to have become a verb. From the moment I was born and the doctor first spanked my pink bottom and declared, “It’s a girl”, I have spent a lifetime being a series of nouns. I have been a daughter, a sister, a cousin, a friend, a student, a cheerleader, a baseball player, an actress, a girlfriend, a speaker, a waitress, a secretary, a fiance’, a wife, and a mother. Mounds of nouns, and I cannot recall a time in my life when my titled role was a verb.

FullSizeRender7But, I also cannot remember a time as remarkable as this season called Grand Parenting. It’s widely known by every parent that a grandchild is God’s reward for not murdering their teenager. Seeing your own child become a parent is easily the most fascinating and fulfilling moment in parenting. There is a passing of the baton from one generation to the next. With a wink and a nod, you watch as your child becomes, not the parent you were, but a better version of the parent you wanted to be. In every way we hope that our children will “turn out” better than we do, and when we see it happening it’s invigorating.

FullSizeRender3Looking into my daughter’s eyes the night her daughter made her entrance into the world was fascinating. It was as if we shared a secret. A secret that could only be understood by she and I, and every other parent in the world. It’s a secret feeling. A new feeling. It’s the “someone just dropped me into an ocean and I’m going to drown in this love” kind of feeling. Knowing your child is engulfed in this new found love is worth every moment of frustration endured with them in adolescence. In that moment, you don’t have to say, “See…” or “I told you so!” because the littlest member of the tribe is saying it to their hearts in a way that is much more powerful.

But that’s just half the story. The other half of the story is the way it changes us. As parents, we already experienced being dropped in the sea of love; as grandparents we experience the ocean differently. When we meet the child of our child we are washed with a wave of love. Each interaction with them brings a new tide, a bigger swell of love.  And in a way, becoming a grandparent allots us each the opportunity to become a verb. Not because we weren’t active as parents, trust me–there is no amount of time that will erase my memory of how much work it takes to care for young children. As grandparents we receive the activity differently. Grand-parenting reminds us of the things we loved about parenting, but were often too tired to always enjoy.

FullSizeRender4Changing a diaper.

Reading a story.

Running a comb through thick hair.

Holding a hand.

Throwing a ball.

Receiving a kiss.

The truth is, for the first time in our lives, we understand how sacrificial love can feel good. Being a Verb Grandparent, it’s suddenly easier to get up, scoot lower, crawl under and carry more–not because our bodies are more fit, but because our hearts are more willing. Being a Verb Grandparent enables us the opportunity to serve with an appreciation for how fleeting the experience will be.

FullSizeRender8We’ve already lived through the life of a toddler and seen how rapidly they grow and change. We are quick to advise new parents to avoid “blinking” lest they miss an important milestone. In one moment our children were asking for help with turning on the bathroom faucet and in the next moment they are asking if they can go camping in Zion with seven of their friends.

Verb Grandparents have less pressure. As a parent there was a looming fear of failure, but this time around we don’t carry the same burden. Most of us have little fear about making the smallest member of our tribe feel important and special. We can see they are brilliant, and because this isn’t our first trip to Disneyland, we know that as long as they feel loved–everything else will eventually fall into place.

 

 

My Favorite Shoes I Barely Wore
Community · Kimly's Trade · Uncategorized

My Favorite Shoes I Barely Wore

Jacquelyn Sill4 Comments

wordsWhen I was fourteen-years-old I joined my High School’s Track Team. Impressing my classmates with my agile Kenyan-like abilities, I won the team’s MVP award and garnished the nickname “Jackrabbit Jackie” for my hare-footed speed. Okay, well maybe that’s not altogether accurate. What actually happened might have fewer accolades.

During the spring semester of my freshman year, the extra curricular activity “Drill Team” was no longer considered a viable class in meeting my High School’s Physical Education requirements. In order for my fellow flag twirlers and me to meet our needed PE requirements, we either had to enroll in a traditional PE class, or we had to “go out” for Track and Field. After a conversation with Coach Monroe, a grandfatherly man whose gentle nature sits firm and soft on the bleachers of my memory, I decided to join the Track Team.

Coach Monroe needed runners to participate in a multitude of events, and he confidently suggested two in which he felt I would excel. The first was the 800 meter run. 800 meters is two laps around the track. TWO LAPS…without stopping. I’m sorry, but that’s a long way to run without an axe murderer chasing you.

The second event in which he convinced the team’s novice runner to participate was the Hurdles. Wikipedia describes hurdling this way,

The act of running and jumping over an obstacle at speed. A series of barriers known as hurdles are set at precisely measured heights and distance in which each athlete must pass by running over. Accidental knocking over of hurdles is not cause for disqualification, but is disadvantageous.

On one afternoon, Coach Monroe, who undoubtedly received his Masters Degree in Manipulation, managed to convince this newcomer that she should run in one event demanding endurance and a second event requiring agility in speedily skipping over obstacles which are strategically placed to knock her on her bum.

Two things stand out about my time on LMHS Matador’s Track and Field Team. The first is that I successfully DID compete in both of those events at two separate meets. Twice, Coach Monroe was able to convince me that I  could successfully navigate the obstacles strategically placed to trip me up. Even though I never placed in hurdles and the 800 meter run only garnished me a 4th place ribbon (out of four runners), I still did it.

The second thing that stands out is a treasured nostalgic heirloom I can still visualize to this day. The monument exists in the form of a pair of blue satin track shoes. I can still see the homely sneakers, and while I don’t know if they were really satin, they shine that bright in my memory.

mNILShzaajnE94KYj5bW4KwAs a teenager, the shoes were not my favorite–remember, I only wore them twice. The metal cleats sparkle in my memory not because of the way they gripped the ground seeing me safely over each hurdle, but because of the indelible message my father sent me upon their purchase.

A father who worked long days in construction, arrived home where his daughter, who was not blessed with athletic prowess, told him she was joining the track team. He looked down at her VANS deck shoes and said, “Get in the truck, you’re gonna need shoes.”

We climbed into my Dad’s sky blue pick-up truck and he drove us to the nearby Big 5 Sporting Goods Store. I can still see my father’s checkbook as his calloused hand signed the note paying nearly fifty dollars for the funky footwear. Fifty dollars may not seem like a lot of money, but over thirty years ago in our middle income family with two working parents; it was an oddity for my Dad to spend that kind of cash on shoes.

This is where the heirloom explodes in my heart.

My Dad didn’t buy me track cleats because I whined and moaned about needing them, and he didn’t buy them because he had any false expectations about my running abilities. The man had raised me. He was fully aware that I was a girl who was drawn to reading, performing, and creating far more often than exerting myself athletically. Unlike Coach Monroe, my father probably had a pretty good idea that I would eventually find my place on the track team, not running in an event, but running the announcer’s booth with a microphone in hand and my voice echoing through the stadium.

I’ve wondered at times if I would even remember my brief inclusion to the track team were it not for the physical manifestation of my father’s confidence. For all I know or imagine, the 4th place ribbon and the spiky slippers sit somewhere in a landfill, and it’s the memory of my father’s belief that has become the treasured heirloom.

This week I was reminded of that parental belief when my Indiegogo fundraising campaign to pay for the editing and publishing of my first fictional manuscript received a hearty donation. Upon notification, I learned the donation was made by my parents.

Writing has brought so many good things into my life, and this is among them. Years from now, will the a published book shine brighter than the heirloom’s of encouragement I’ve already received?

When you drive someone to Big 5 and  buy them a pair of cleats, the runner’s belief in their ability to run well is re-energized.  When faithful friends or far off strangers are willing to invest in your dreams because they see your potential, what happens at the finish line becomes more likely, but less consequential. It’s a race worth running no matter the outcome. Even last place becomes a victory for all.  Time and again, the spark of creativity has been rekindled for those who strive to create by the mere knowledge that someone believes in their ability to navigate the hurdles and endure to the end.

For more information about the fictional book I wrote and how to be a part of Making Kimly’s Trade Happen, simply click on this LINK.

Kimly’s Trade, a Novel by Jackie Sill
Community · Kimly's Trade

Kimly’s Trade, a Novel by Jackie Sill

Jacquelyn SillLeave a comment

 

kimlyslittlesquareAmerican journalist, Kimly Denim, thought again about the man she met crossing the street in the center of the city of Chiang Mai. Something about him had left her feeling like a fluttering teen. Was it his eyes? She closed her own and visualized his gaze. Did he really have gray eyes? It wasn’t merely his appearance. Yes, he was handsome, but he wasn’t the first handsome man she had ever encountered. There was something different about him.  She closed her dark eyes and mentally chastised herself. She remembered the reason she had made the trip to the Asian country: The News Article. Humans. Slavery. Sex Trafficking. The last diversion she needed while navigating her way through this inhumane darkness was the distraction of a man.

Soon Kimly finds herself pulled into the darkest areas of the Slave Trade, as she is pursued by the Prostitution Lord, SuSuk.  Kimly flees the large city and heads north to the border of Burma. Travel through the foreign landscapes with Kimly and be pulled into the story of the slave child Noi.

Can Kimly trust her contacts? What is happening to the children in the border town of Mae Sai? Can Kimly believe there is a God when such atrocities are happening all around her?

The Story of Jackie and Kimly

Almost four years ago I wrote an 85,000 word fictional manuscript about a woman at a crossroads in her life. I named her Kimly because I saw her as a fierce lioness with a limited view of the strength she possessed. At the time I didn’t realize how significant Kimly’s story was to my own struggles. I also didn’t see how prophetic Kimly’s journey was to my own.
Within the manuscript I also unearthed the parallel story of a young girl sold into the sex trade.  When readers are drawn into Noi’s story of slavery and abandonment they will discover a story that is stimulating and triumphant. Reading the story allows readers to travel through the streets of Thailand on a life changing adventure filled with hope.

Kimly’s Next MoveIMG_9004

It’s time to move forward and give Kimly’s Trade a life outside of the Sill home.

Let’s Be Real…it’s The Story of God

Hashtags are great, and they are a catchy way to file photos and events. But, #TheStoryofDavidandJackie means nothing, while The Story of God means everything. 

  • Kimly’s Trade is the story of God’s redemption and restoration.
  • Time and again, God has been faithful to use stories as a means to spread the message of the gospel to people who might not hear about His love.
  • It’s time for that to happen again.

We can’t publish Kimly’s Trade without your help.

  • I am asking for donations to help fund Kimly’s Trade.   Make a Donation HERE
  • Look through the PERKS on the Indiegogo site and and pick the one that works for you!
  • Share the campaign for Kimly’s Trade!
  • Use the Indiegogo share tools and share about this campaign!
  • Pray for our marriage. Pray that we would be diligent in doing the things we have learned to remain steadfast and faithful.
  • Pray for the writing. As we are revisiting Kimly and Noi, pray that God will be glorified through their stories.

PLEASE go to Indiegogo and help us reach our goal! CLICK HERE and help us reach our goal!

 

Jacob and the Pokémon Card
Community · spiritual growth

Jacob and the Pokémon Card

Jacquelyn Sill3 Comments

pokemon-2Imagine you’re an active six-year-old boy named Jacob.

Like any youngster, you have some favorite possessions, and sometimes you’ll bring those items with you to places that don’t necessarily make sense to adults. For instance, one day while you were getting ready to spend the afternoon doing fun things with your Mom you decided to bring along some Pokémon cards. As if you were on a grown-up date, the two of you would be going to the movies and then dining at a nice restaurant. Most adults wouldn’t see the purpose in bringing along a few Pokémon cards, but in your six-year-old mind it was perfectly logical. You had three brand new cards and you wanted to look at them and think about all the Pokémon battles they would win in the future when you spent time with your friends. You grabbed your new cards and followed your Mom to the car.

Once you arrived at the theater, you set your prized cards in the armrest drink holder and adjusted them so they, too, could see the dinosaurs as they roared from the screen. With small popcorn in hand, you sat back and allowed the movie to take you on a spectacular adventure.

As soon as the last dinosaur roared and the credits rolled up the screen, you were pouncing out of your chair imitating the giant reptiles. Your excitement was so fierce and passionate that you left with a dinosaur swagger, not realizing you had forgotten to pick up your Pokémon cards and bring them with you.

It would be some time before you realized you had lost your prized Pokémon cards. Hours would pass before you noticed, and it would be too late to go back and get them. Some might say the cards must not have been as meaningful to you as you claimed, or you wouldn’t have been so careless. Heartless comments like those are made by people trying to justify and distance themselves from pain. It’s actually a sign of self-loathing and fear when someone refuses to have compassion for the disappointment in another person’s life.

But, you are six. You aren’t going to think about these things when you realize the Pokémon cards are gone. What you are going to think about is how it makes you feel. And what you are going to feel is just a whole bundle of SAD.

 

pokemon-1When I first met Jacob he was bouncing around a restaurant patio table playing in the mist falling from overhead water-misters.

It was a Friday afternoon and I was working as a food server. The weather was exceptionally hot, but in spite of the cool dew dropping from the metal rods, there were no other customers dining on the patio. His activity under the drizzling water wasn’t being disruptive in any way, and I was impressed by his Mother’s willingness to endure the heat so he could remain playful after so much theatrical stimulation.

Jacob’s playful personality wasn’t what made him unique, but his eating habits sure did. While dining with his Mother, she ordered for him, and she introduced him to cuisine far tastier than chicken fingers. She ordered each of them a Pina-Colda (albeit, his was a virgin) a seafood appetizer, and then told me they would be sharing the Carnitas Dinner Entree’. I was genuinely awed by the confidence of Jacob’s mother, and by the way he responded to her. He trusted her, complied and seemed to really enjoy the gourmet fare.

Then Jacob stopped bouncing.

I came out to the patio with a standing tray-jack and some to-go containers so I could box their leftovers when I noticed the change in Jacob. The boy who had been so lively was now sitting very still with his head down. I couldn’t see if he was crying for sure, because his little face was hidden behind his baseball cap, but I did see a small hand reach up under the cap, so I guessed he was drying a tear.

“Sometimes we have things for a short amount of time. It just happens that way,” Jacob’s Mother spoke to him.

Jacob didn’t reply to her, and I didn’t say anything. Working as a food server there are many times I have stumbled upon a conversation that I wouldn’t typically be invited to witness.

“Would it help you to think that maybe someone else found them, and that person is feeling very lucky?” Jacob’s Mother tried again.

“No,” Jacob whispered honestly.

“Yeah, hopefully that one will come,” Jacob’s Mother was so calm. She was faintly disappointed for him, but not overly emotional.

Finally, I couldn’t help but say something. I proceeded to tell her how impressed I was with her parenting. I shared examples of the things I had noticed her do with her son. It was then she told me about his disappointment. He had just realized that he had left three of his new Pokémon cards in the movie theater. She told me he was struggling with feeling disappointed.

And my heart welled up with so much hope I couldn’t help but smile.

pokemon-7You see, several months earlier, my son and his wife were visiting from California. They came to the restaurant and enjoyed some drinks and appetizers while I was working. When they were finished, I told them they didn’t have to pay–it was my pleasure to pay their tab. As a joke, my adult son handed me a Pokémon card saying, “Here’s your tip.”

For over four months I have carried that Pokémon card in the notebook I use while I am working. There was no reason to hold onto the card. Time and again, I have emptied the contents and the cash out of the notebook, but each time I would put the Pokémon card back into the money slot. Other food servers even teased me and asked if they could have it.

“Nope,” I replied. “It’s mine.”

But, now, standing on the patio, I wondered if the card was mine, after all. Perhaps, I had just been holding it for Jacob.

I knelt down to Jacob’s eye level and I told him I had something to share with him, and I hoped it might even help him not feel so sad. I told him I had a Pokémon card which had been given to me by my son. I pulled it out of my notebook and I told him, “I want you to have it.”

The look on Jacob’s face when I handed him the Pokémon card was priceless. To be a stranger who could come along and solve a simple crisis was worth more than any amount of money I might have made that afternoon in tips.

I left Jacob and his Mother on the misty patio and went inside to prepare their bill. When I returned, Jacob was bouncing again, and this time he had things he needed to tell me. He told me that because the Pokémon card was an older card, he would be able to win many battles, but he also told me he didn’t think he should keep it forever.

Because the Pokémon card was a gift to me from my son, he decided I should keep it. “One day your son will have a little boy, and you might want to give it to him,” he told me in all sincerity.

Jacob and his Mother had come up with a two week plan. He was going to take the card for two weeks and then he would return to the restaurant with his parents and give it back to me. This would allow him to win many battles with the card, and I would still be able to keep it for my future grandchildren.

FullSizeRender(5)I don’t know if I will ever see Jacob or the Pokémon card again, but I know I will never forget our interaction. I also know there was something in our meeting for me.

It doesn’t matter what we lose, or how tragic our situation, something is coming to change the dynamics of the story. When we feel most disappointed, as hard as it may be, we have to press on knowing there is a random Pokémon card waiting to be unearthed.

If we could see the contents of everyone’s notebook, perhaps we would let our defenses down and open ourselves up to another. If we knew who was holding the replacement Pokémon card, we would seek that person out and make ourselves vulnerable. But that is not the way it works. Without any knowledge of the contents of my notebook, Jacob’s Mother invited me into Jacob’s disappointment. It was only by her sharing that I became a key player in their story. I had the card to change the story, but I didn’t know what was needed until I heard the story. Hearing the story changed the story.

We are called to live in community with one another. Living in community is not merely sharing pleasant things. We are called to share our disappointments as well as the victories. When we do this we are inviting others to partake in the journey, and their involvement will change the story. Our faith increases and we are transformed into people who win many battles.