RoseGlen Literary Festival

Decide to be extraordinary -Epictetus

I purpose to be an extraordinary presenter. That doesn’t mean perfection; but it does mean I give my best to every reader, bookseller and volunteer I meet.

The speaker’s circuit isn’t an easy one. It involves tailoring your speech for the audience, travel, selecting the right wardrobe, making sure your hair looks just so (more on that later); and – most important- taking care of your voice before a presentation, which means no bread or starch, and only water (lots of water) before taking your place behind the microphone.

I am grateful to the RoseGlen Literary Festival staff for retaining me as keynote speaker in 2022 when the pandemic canceled last year’s event. This wasn’t my first keynote event; and fortunately, my calendar is filling for the rest of the year. Like every other author on the speaking circuit, all events for the past two years cancelled. Authors have “struggled mightily” as my friend is wont to say.

Saturday morning dawns and I am excited. I can’t wait to meet readers. You’ve heard me say many times, Readers are everything. I say it because I believe it. With that in mind, please follow me to Rose Glen. If you’re a regular subscriber to my blog, you’ve heard me talk about this festival many times. I’ve volunteered for 8 years because I believe in literacy and the power of the written word. Illiteracy rates are climbing and now, more than ever, we need make time to read, give books as gifts, share stories with others.

Be the person who carries a book with you into the waiting room. Let people catch you reading. We need to plant the literacy seed in everyone we meet.

The morning began in preparation. I had packed multiple dresses and two pairs of shoes because experience taught me long ago one should be prepared. In the shower, while conditioning my hair I noticed a fragrance that was decidedly minty fresh. Imagine my shock to learn the maroon tube of conditioner was actually toothpaste!

Frantic, I re-lathered, rinsed, and towel dried my hair then quickly realized my hair would be a frizzy mess unless I could dig up something from the bathroom closet in my father-in-law’s home.

Dep and Colgate: Recipe for hair drama!

I found this, a bottle of Dep. Now, the ladies in my novel, Outbound Train, are familiar with the magical hair product Dippity-do, a gel one uses to style (and hold) your hair for eternity.

Readers, let me tell you, this DEP hair product was a lifesaver. I joked from the stage that my hair will not move again until the mid-term elections. I believe my words may ring true.

Entering the doors of the conference readers find authors offering a variety of simultaneous workshops. Poets, naturalists, mystery writers, romance writers, sci-fi and historians form panels that offer something for everyone.

Entering the room to deliver a speech never gets old. There is a magic waiting, and for this particular conference, the room looked like an image from a fairytale. What then should a keynote discuss?

A delicious lunch, handmade pottery, books to purchase that support the library.
What more does this conference need? In a word, it is perfect. Photo Credit: Renea Winchester

Mr. McMahan asked that I share stories from my writing journey.  Like other authors, the path from inspiration to publication is arduous, filled with pitfalls of despair and moments of elation. There are no overnight successes in this business.

For those who began writing their own version of the “Great American novel” during the pandemic, please know I have been writing for eighteen years. Beginning with short stories, non-fiction, how-to books, weekly newspaper columns, and finally, a transition to novels. All traditionally published. There are no shortcuts in this business.

Authors hold secret meetings about our publication woes. We talk about a saturated market where thousands (yes thousands) of titles release daily. We whisper about the literary pecking order, and how your work can be stellar, but ultimately, the publisher’s credibility carries the most weight. Authors bemoan how social media creates a false reality, one where readers believe everyone is buying books, but few are during a recession. In this faux-reality, readers think we don’t need their support. Authors are trapped in this social-media cycle struggling to reach our audience while knowing in our creative souls the readers hold our careers in their powerful hands.  

Authors also stand on the shoulders of others who refused to give up; those who took gut-punches of rejections and recognized there are no short cuts. Authors who inherently understand this gig isn’t easy, but is so rewarding. Authors who partner with booksellers, buying books long before putting a single word on the page. There is a community among wordsmiths; booksellers are the cornerstone.

Stories matter.

Literacy matters.

Supporting each other, matters.

Inside this community, members do not take without giving; they do not tell others you are a risk not worth taking; they do not compete, they share and celebrate. Inside the writing community, others recognize an empty cup and tap you off so you can continue.

Let’s be honest, haven’t we all needed a little “tapping off” just to make it through another day?

And this, my friends, is why my time behind the microphone is vital. How does one convey the importance readers play in the literary community, in society as a whole?

How can I tap off those whose cups are empty?

I could have stayed at the microphone for hours connecting with this audience of glorious readers, but statistically we tune out any speaker who crosses the 25-minute mark. And so I began.

A packed house of readers and fellow authors. Heaven on earth. Photo Credit: Renea Winchester

I began with an icebreaker about my Dippity-do hair. It is not lost on me that my morning drama provided a moment of laughter at my expense. I transitioned to quick stories about the people who raised me. I write about strong women, because failing wasn’t an option for the women in my family. I am confident the women in Outbound Train: Carole Anne, Barbara and Pearlene wanted to give up many times when life got rough, but quitting wasn’t an option.

In truth, quitting isn’t an option today either.

While I didn’t share the secret author conversations, I did speak honestly about personal heartache along the bumpy road to publication. Readers can spy a fake from a million miles away.

I shared my hopes and the unexpected magic of becoming an internationally published author. (Yay France! And fingers crossed for a Russian translation).  I spoke with gratitude and humility. The multiple awards I’ve won will become hollow trinkets of success without readers. It is for them, and because of them, that I write.

I spoke of the heartache and wanting to give up. I gave thanks to those supporting writers who believed in me.

I was honest. I was vulnerable. I extended the hand of friendship to everyone in the audience.

Genuinely.

Sincerely.

Humbly.

I am kin to Carole Anne, Barbara, Pearlene and the other heroes in Outbound Train. Do not shy away from our hardworking hands when we extend them to you, for to do so reveals something dark and judgmental within the human psyche.

We are here today because someone before us did the hard work. We are equal. We are stronger together, always.

After the presentation, I gathered with the amazing team from Moonpie General Store who sponsored the festival and served as bookseller. In between signings, we discussed my “Bologna Book” and the tradition of banana moon pies in the Winchester family. Once again, I am reminded how food brings us together, and how words heal the soul if we allow it.

The amazing crew of Moon Pie General Store. Sponsor of the festival and bookseller. Photo Credit: Renea Winchester

For those who didn’t attend the conference, or who didn’t have time to stop at the table and purchase a copy of Outbound Train, or Farming, Friends & Fried Bologna Sandwiches, signed copies are available. Give the fine folks a jingle at 865 428 5708. They will take care of you.

All too soon it seemed the conference was over. Time to pack up, return home and ready myself for the next conference. As always, I am grateful to you. Please follow me on Goodreads and mark my books “to be read” if you haven’t already.

Meeting glorious readers. Photo Credit: Chad Branton

And despite a minty-fresh halo hovering above me, my hair looked fantastic.

Renea Winchester is a multiple-award winning author who is internationally published. She is working on her next novel.

Bird In Hand

The sound was unmistakable, a “plunk” against the glass as the bird flew headlong into the kitchen window. Rushing out the door, I hurriedly grabbed a hand towel and slipped my feet into the muck boots by the door.

A nuthatch laid stunned on the ground, its tiny wings splayed out in the grass. Its beak open, gasping for breath.

Carefully, I gathered it in the towel and held it close. Casting aside every superstition about having a bird in the house (we southerners believe it is a sign of death), I brought the injured little one inside and sat on the sofa, while speaking to it like a newborn infant.

A bird is a delicate thing. With tiny feet, light-as-air-feathers, and thin beaks, looking as this winged-creature filled me with amazement. I told the little love “God knows you have fallen. Let’s just rest here for a minute and let Him take care of you.”

The nuthatch closed its tiny eyes and panted harder.

“God sees you my little bird. If his eye is on the sparrow, it is also on the nuthatch.”

Suddenly it occurred to me that I have been living my life much like this little bird. I’m flying (hard as I can), as fast as I can, every day that I can. I have a full-time job, an aging dad, a marriage, two goats, a novel coming out in 15 months, another novel in progress, and in the middle of that, I garden like there’s no tomorrow.  (I see you shaking your head. You’re with me too, I can tell). There is so much I want to do, so much I want to learn, so much I want to tell y’all and suddenly, “plunk.” I hit a glass wall.

That’s the thing about glass walls, they’re invisible and oh-so-deadly.

Lately, I’ve been having my share of pain. Neck pain the result of an accident in Atlanta after someone passed a city bus and sideswiped me. Stress triggers this pain, but if one were to ask, “Are you stressed?” I would be hard pressed to list a single thing keeping me up at night. And so I continue to fly headlong all day, every day.

But God knows I have fallen. He knows all of us have fallen. And as I sat holding the tiny black and white nuthatch, I saw – clearly – the parallel. God is also holding me. He’s holding me as I hold the bird He created. He knows the number of hairs on my head and the number of feathers of every tiny bird. God himself is saying, “Rena, let’s just rest here for a minute. Let me take care of you. Rest. Breathe.”

Ten minutes passed then suddenly the bird bristled awake and chirped. Before I could take it outside it flew to the ceiling. Nuthatches aren’t perching birds. I think of them as “hanging” birds, because they have a big toe (called a hallux toe) that allows them to hang beneath limbs, and walk down trees head first using this hallux toe to hold it in place. This “walking” gives them an advantage as they pluck insects from tree bark.

Glancing toward the ceiling, I looked at the bird’s tiny feet. Clearly, one foot was injured and curled-closed. It literally held on with a single toe reminding me yet again that even when we are hanging on by a thin thread, God has us.

Renea Winchester is the author of In the Garden with Billy, Farming, Friends & Fried Bologna Sandwiches, and A Hardscrabble Christmas.

Photo Credit: Wikipedia

 

Dear Horse Lovers . . .

Dear Horse Lovers

Stop feeding other people’s horses.

You do not have permission to pass a single slice of apple through the fence.

Not a carrot, or a sugar cube.

You do not know the dietary requirements, or RESTRICTIONS, the horse is under.

You do not know anything about the animal other than its beauty.

Your apple

Your carrot

Your slice of bread, or cracker, or whatever the hades you slide through the fence can make the horse very ill; it can ruin their hooves; it can cause bones to push through their hooves, is can kill the horse (only after much suffering)

You, yes YOU, are responsible for making the horse ill.

You are responsible for crippling the animal.

You are responsible for its excruciating pain.

Your IGNORANCE comes with consequence to something beautiful and magestic.

Your ignorance inflicts long-lasting pain and months of healing.

Yes, ONE apple can do it.

Stop.

Just stop thinking it is your responsibility to give a horse a “treat.”

Do not give my goats, sheep, cattle, camels, or basically any animal that is not yours, a treat. Animals that are not yours are OFF- limits. Goats don’t eat “everything you feed them.” Many animals can die from dehydration within hours of eating something that disagrees with them.

Yesterday someone fed our horse something that made him very ill. Dad found him “down” a term that strikes fear in the hearts of VETERAN horse owners.

If you think it’s hard to carry a 50 pound dog to the vet. Imagine the difficulty of getting a 1200 pound animal back on his feet.

Now imagine rubbing this horse’s belly while he kicks and lays his head on your Dad’s shoulder because he is in horrible pain.

Imagine forcing fluids down him with a hose.

But you don’t imagine it, because you saw something beautiful and you wanted to feed it.

Because you’re a good person and you love horses.

Because you think it is your privilege to feed my animal.

You can’t imagine the consequences of your actions because you saw a kind and gentle animal and you just had to give it a treat. He let you pet him and then you rode home feeling great about yourself.

Food equals love, right.

Wrong.

We purchased Prince from an owner who had far too many horses on the pasture. They were down to eating creeping Charlie because there was no grass.

We brought Prince home and put him on the pasture.

For an hour every day he could eat grass. Because we knew if he ate too much too fast he would be sick.

Then we increased the pasture time, slowly, very slowly.

Because we KNEW you can colic, founder, and cripple an animal when you take them from nothing, to belly-high-grass.

One year later, Prince is perfect. He is slick and glorious.

Until yesterday, when he was in agony. Thanks to the ignorance of a family with children.

Parents who taught their children it’s ok to feed someone else’s animal.

If you’ve ever allowed your children to feed someone’s animal, here are the results of your actions.

This morning Prince is better, but if you care anything about horses, please do your part to prevent the senseless agony inflicted upon them when ignorant horse lovers feel it is their duty to give your animal a treat.

Please share so that no other horse suffers.

The Boy

He sits alone, always alone, with his head down.

Drawing.

If the other students weren’t so loud you could hear pencil lead scratching the paper.

Lined paper.

Not blank paper, or a sketchbook. Regular, loose leaf notebook paper.

He hides away and bides his time between classes- two hours from what I can gather- sketching away, recreating characters using the Japanese style anime (a hand-drawn style partnered with computer animation).

He’s invisible. To most everyone, but me.

Upperclassmen surround him, swiping their parent’s credit cards into the machine and waiting for their soft drink to dispense. Their backpacks brush against him. Still, he is invisible. He shifts the paper away and works on something else.

Images of them.

I believe youth like The Boy test us. They see us, every day. They know our names. They look at us while we look through them. They dare us to speak, administering a test that many fail. Every. Single. Day. We fail because society groups us into categories based on skin color, education, social status, eye color, age. And those categories have little room for the recruitment of anyone outside the approved social standing. Those categories offer even less hope for a boy who doesn’t play football in a football town, or a girl who doesn’t cheer for the football team.

The boy is skinny with a cleft chin that will complete his chiseled look five years from now. Five years from now girls will fight over him, but he wouldn’t believe that if I told him, so I kept those thoughts to myself, along with the hope that ten years from now he will be confident, and not feel alone.

I approach boldly, “anime?” I ask.

He nods, his hand moving furiously transferring whatever is built up inside onto the page.

“That’s very good,” I said. “Are you taking art classes?”

“Can’t,” he said with more vertical scratches across the page. “I’m only fifteen. Can’t take college level when you’re fifteen.”

“Who made that stupid rule?” I asked. “Anyone can take one look at your work and see how good you are. You should take college-level classes.”

He quickly hid the smile. Not once meeting my eyes.

After telling him my name I said, “Look. You don’t know me, but I recognize talent when I see it. I’m not an artist like you. But I would give anything to be able to draw like you do, or paint, or play music. Words are my art, but your work . .  .well, I just want you to know that your work is awesome, and if someone isn’t encouraging you, I want you to know that no one encourages me either, but you must keep drawing.”

The words spilled from my lips and I’m sure he thought, I wish this woman would shut up so I can focus on my work. But I’d had a bad week, the kind of week where everything punched me in the gut and despite my positive thoughts, prayer, and power walks I still felt punched square in the muffin-top. Usually when I feel lower than a whale’s belly God places someone in my path.

Someone just like The Boy.

“So if you feel like no one encourages you, if you feel hopeless I just want to say, you’re not alone. I feel the same way, but I keep pressing on.”

The boy tucked his cleft chin. More pencil scrapes, then he reached into a stack of paper and fished out a drawing. I was a dark rendering of the character Eren Jaeger, known as Titan to those thirty years younger than me.

It was the kind of rendering that would cause students to panic, Titan holding a gun. But they didn’t know The Boy. How could they? They don’t see him! They don’t know about anime, or how it transforms an ordinary Eren Jaeger into someone who faces his fears and becomes someone with superpower. Older students had spent an entire semester ignoring him, talking through him and around him day after day with their backpacks bumping against him. As a group they happily ignored him while The Boy sat silent, three buildings away from students his own age.

Picking up the rendering of Titan I said, “Flawless. Absolutely Flawless.”

The Boy, who had spoken a total of eleven words, smiled.

Returning to my desk and the rest of the workday, I quickly forgot about The Boy, until he appeared at my door and presented me with an image he’d drawn for me. In the image Titan was jumping, hand extended punching through a large wall. At the corner of the page, the inscription: “To my inspirer. I will remember this day.”

I pressed the drawing to my heart and wept.

I shall remember, always.

Renea Winchester is the award-winning author of Farming, Friends, and Fried Bologna Sandwiches.

White Girl

If you asked me to assign a shade to the color of my skin I’d say – with emphasis – “chalk.” In a room of women, I will be the whitest. And on Friday, April 20, 2018, I’m sure my chalky self caused a few eyebrows to raise. But God doesn’t see my color, or theirs, or yours for that matter. God sees the heart.

When I first read La’Kesha Calhoun’s on-line newsletter in 2000 I knew God had anointed this woman.

She’d “gone through” more than a few things in her life, the kind of things that break the heart of a woman, but also plants the seed of compassion so deep in a woman’s soul the devil himself can’t uproot it, though he tries.

One particular newsletter stayed with me for years. She encouraged her readers “don’t give up on your children. God is about to show up in the situation.” And friends, I printed that newsletter and have it (still) tucked in my Bible because every now and then I need reminding that “the devil has plans for your children, but God – “

God has other plans.

The newsletter I printed is now is dappled with tearstains. It’s crumpled. It’s what I held onto when my son was going through a rough patch, it’s what I held with the other adult-child. It’s what I need when I need a friend to speak the truth to me.

So when I learned Miss La’Kesha would be at the Titus 2 retreat in Pigeon Forge I messaged Lady Chiquita Turner and all but BEGGED the woman to let me come.

Now before I try to describe the indescribable things that happened to me, y’all need to know my church history. I’ve spent the last seventeen years in a church I adore. I adore it because we welcome everyone. I sit beside Miss Mary because when the spirit fills her she can’t contain it, nor did she try to contain it. Miss Mary don’t put on a show, she puts on JESUS !

When Lady Turner said I could come I told everyone I knew, “I’m going to Pigeon Forge to get my Jesus.”

Because Jesus loves girls with dirty hands and chalky legs, and God himself knew way back in 2000 I’d meet La’Kesha on April 20, 2018. I like to think of Him smiling up in heaven with the saints saying, “Y’all gather around and watch this. I’ve just plunked Renea into a big ole room of strangers. It’s about to get real!”

La’Kesha and I both wiped away tears as we hugged at our first meeting. Settling into her conference (and I can’t tell you everything that happened because it is HER story to tell), I began to realize how much I’d been holding inside: pain, regret, anger, fear. I’d pushed that down, deep down to the basement level of my heart.

But God . . .

That sly Father-God had other plans. He wanted everyone in attendance to release all of that junk. Release it and be free. Whew, I wish y’all had been with me. I’m telling you right now we have no idea how much junk we’re carrying and how heavy it is; how the shackle of carrying things that should be released hurts the marrow of our bones; how if we can only release it we become FREE. Free to be who God made us to be.

Is anyone weary right now?

During one part of the workshop we were asked to write down the things we were going to release and those who finished writing earlier than others, were instructed to walk around the room and “pray for our sisters.”

Now God had already blessed me just by allowing me to get into the conference, but He was about to bring me to my knees (and I mean that literally). If you don’t have a relationship with Jesus this sounds crazy, so bear with me for the rest of this post.

Shontell approached and said, “God has given me a word and I need to pray it over you.”

Let me pause right there because someone just said, here we go. Someone just closed their mind because they don’t believe that God can use other people. Someone just stopped reading because they don’t believe that God can speak through Shontell, or me, or you for that matter. Someone just missed the blessing God designed specifically for them.

But, if God can’t speak to me through a stranger, who else is He going to use, the liars and jealous people we encounter every day? C’mon now, open your heart. How is it that you accept everything else the world spoon feeds you, but right now you’re building a wall around your heart?

We beg God for a sign; we pray to hear from Him. But we . . . .

We put God in a box and duct tape the entire box shut ! We expect God to show up when we want. We expect God to deliver us in the way we want. We get tired of waiting and give up!

But these ladies do not put God in a box. Not Shontell, not Lady Turner, not La’Kesha, not Big Mama, not even the young ladies in attendance. My friends, God was out in the open determined to bless every single woman in that room. As a matter of fact, I think people up on the 5^th floor got blessed too, but I digress.

And why was God blessing people? Because these ladies came expecting to meet God where they were!

For those who have given up on church, or walked away from God (or both), let me explain that I actively ask God Are my actions in-line with your will? Today, many people have walked away because they aren’t being “entertained,” or they don’t like the view of the church, or the politics of the church, or the music, or the robes, or the preacher, or the message. Hear me clear, if you’ve walked away from God you have fallen victim to satan’s plan! He wanted you away from believers and you played right into his hands. As Pastor Calhoun says, “we must stop eating the food the devil puts on our place and believe that your situation is one command away from being destroyed. And that command is I still believe in the power of God!”

Now back to Shontell. . .

Remember, I don’t know any of these women. I am not Facebook friends with them, I’m not messaging them. I didn’t get introduced to them prior to the conference, or before La’Kesha started the workshop. None of these women have read my books. They live in another state, but Shontell came to me and said, “God has given me a word and I need to pray it over you.”

This was my moment of faith. I had two choices: believe what she said, or doubl.

Then she pulled me to her. She pressed her heart flat against mine. She placed her hands on my shoulders and she said, “That pain you’ve had in your shoulders. God’s gonna take that pain . . . today.”

Shontell had no way of knowing that every morning pain woke me at three am and I began icing my shoulders. The place she touched, that’s where the pain originated. The place I’d put the heating pad on, then ice repeating this process until 6 am where I’d run a bath, drop a couple handfuls of Epson salt in the water and soak until the muscles relaxed enough so I could turn my head and get in my car to get to this conference.

Shontell didn’t know. . . BUT GOD KNEW!

Shontell only knew to be OBEDIENT to what God had laid on her heart.

I’m tearing up right now. Praise you Jesus for showing up. Praise God for Shontell’s obedience, for actively seeking God’s will in her life.

Then Shontell ran her hands down my back and said, “your back that’s been all out of alignment. God’s going to heal that. God says it’s healed. God knows you’ve been tired. You’ve been so tired you don’t think you can go on; you don’t think you’ll make it through the day. You think you can’t do it anymore. But do you want to know what God says? God says you’re going to run. Renea, you’re going to RUN and not even be tired.”

Hang on readers, I’m crying again.

Had I been a close-minded Christian I would have straightened my spine and become one of those “stiff neck” (stubborn) people mentioned in the Word of God. I would have backed away . . . slowly and headed for the door.

Instead, I fell into Shontell. I said, “I receive this healing!” I said, “Thank You Jesus! Praise You! Thank you for this precious child of yours who is acting in obedience.”

I clung to this stranger. I pressed myself into her, because God was using her to speak to me, the lowliest of sinners on this planet! I received God’s goodness because I had PRAYED FOR IT. So if I prayed for healing. If I prayed for Jesus to meet me at this conference, how dare I try to manipulate the way God delivered Him to me?

Are you with me? Do you understand what I’m saying?

This is where we miss our blessing. This is why our prayers remain unanswered. Because we want God to appear (today if possible), and we want God to deliver (us exactly in the way we want, please). We want a message from God (could you send me a text please Lord). And in these requests we hurl God in a box then we close our minds. We are afraid to let the spirit work. We are too afraid of what the media has told us that we don’t want to be the only white girl in a room full of strangers from Memphis, Tennessee. We want to be safe in our small group, in our Sunday school class, in our prayer closets.

But The Bible says in Mark 8:23 Jesus took the blind man by the hand, and led him out of town. Jesus took the man out of his comfort zone, away from friends, away from family. Jesus took him out of town to heal him! The scripture does not say, Jesus carried the man, or Jesus, drug the man out of town. The blind man was willing to be healed !

Where is Jesus trying to take you today in order to be healed? My friends, let the spirit lead you out of your comfort zone to a place of healing.

If you want to support La’Kesha’s ministy and empower others please consider mailing a financial contribution to

La’Kesha Ford Calhoun

3200 Players Club Circle

Memphis TN 38125

My Deal with God

Journal Entry February 2015: Lord, I surrender to your will. If it is your will that I never write again, let me accept it and move forward, never looking back.

Those who follow me on Facebook know that I write down my prayers. I do so as a way of reminding myself when I am low (like now) that God is always at work in my life. Y’all also know that I’m honest. So today I must share that I kinda want this prayer back.

In 2015, my husband and I were planning to put the house on the market. We had an atypical Atlanta house, not a “white columns” type of abode. No pool. No HOA. No lawn boy. I knew selling the house would require divine intervention. I also knew my husband needed a change, but most of all, I knew that I had put writing in front of many things in my life.

On this particular date, I poured out my worries as we should. But now, over two years later, with the house sold I want my prayer back. I want to write again. (and no, blogging isn’t writing).

I have- for years- been working on an incredible novel set in my hometown of Bryson City, but now that I am almost finished with it, the words will not come. And if you read my previous blog about the conference I attended, I’m pretty sure that God doesn’t’ want me writing anytime soon.

So now I must ask, what DOES God want me to do?

That questions also comes with its own problems, for God really hasn’t commanded us to “do” a whole lot of hard things: Love One Another, Feed My Sheep, Give Thanks to the Lord for He is good.

Goodness gracious, those are easy things, aren’t they?

They why do we (meaning me) struggle so?

Why do I struggle with feelings of inadequacy, hopelessness, fear, anger, despair?

Why did I pray that prayer with all sincerity, but now want it back because I think I know what’s best for me? Which begs another questions, do I really want God’s will in my life, or do I just want my way? Did I really surrender to His will . . . or only if His will aligns with my wants.

These are the hard questions I ponder as God deals with me.

Renea Winchester is the award-winning author of In the Garden with Billy, and, Farming Friends and Fried Bologna Sandwiches by Mercer University Press. She is currently working on her novel, Outbound Train, set in her hometown of Bryson City.

Lost Things

I lost something. Something I dearly needed. . . my keys. Specifically, my room keys with my car keys attached.

I was key-less and 90 miles from home.

On an ordinary day I would classify these items as misplaced, something found later after a diligent search; but on Saturday they were lost.

The instructor gave an out-door classroom assignment. Since the workshop was held on a college campus, and because I wanted to collect as many experiences as possible, I wedged my car keys (key fob inside pocket) with the metal room key sticking out.

Then I was off.

Outside with pen and notebook in hand, tasked with collecting, observing —and then analyzing said observations into a story.

My novel in progress features a train and since I want to write accurately about my character’s experiences, I lit out, walking at a rapid clip.

Walking while writing.

Writing while walking.

Thinking. Listening. Observing. Writing.

I wove through the campus, through the woods, off the designated concrete path.

Off the designated concrete path, I found a tree house that no one else knew about. Later, I found the tracks. I touched the tracks, laid down on the tracks, collected nails and bolts from alongside the tracks.

Then I returned, carrying said bolts and nails back to class, (mercy, they are heavy). I placed them on the table with a need to wash the rust from my hands. I reached into my pocket.

No keys.

The keys were lost.

Not missing. . . lost.

Creative minds will understand me when I say that I literally felt every drop of creativity leave my body. It slipped down my arms, cascaded from my fingertips.

Dashing to the restroom, I washed my dirty hands then whispered to the coordinator, “I lost my room key. No, not the swipe card.” I double checked my name badge where the exterior door swipe card safely remained tucked inside.  “Just the door keys.”

She called facilities and ordered a spare key.

Returning to the classroom, I wrote my observations, penned them into a story I would not share with the class. Creativity tends to take Confidence with it when it leaves. From that moment forward I focused on lost keys, especially after a pop-up storm dropped an inch of rain.

Sunday morning came, bringing with it the realization the keys were gone. I arose early, lit out again retracing my steps through the grass and gravel for the umpteenth time. With my aging car, I’d need a new key fob which would required an (expensive) call to a dealer.

Whatever, I thought, feeling lower than a whale’s belly. What-ever.

Then I began to pray.

Lord, I’m not going to pray for my keys because I know they’re gone.

I’m not going to ask you to return them, because I’ve already done my due diligence, retracing my steps, walking, looking, laying sideways in the gravel looking for something shiny. The keys are gone and I know that. So I’m moving on.

The catering van drove by, almost breakfast time. The driver smiled. I waived and continued praying, aloud.

Lord, thank you for everyone I’ve met here this weekend.

Thank you for the talented women at my table. I praise you that the agent is interested in Erika’s work and that Whitney might consider finding a place for her short story. Bless them both Lord. Bless our presenters, Jim, Bryn, Gary, Megan for their vulnerability and displays of raw emotion. Bless Christopher. Thank you for his honesty and that all the instructors were approachable and kind.

My walk, and prayers continued: Lord, bless Meg, Kate and Betsy who have labored in the sweltering heat to bring us a fantastic conference. May they be restored after the conference.

I made the loop, from beginning to end, praying out loud, walking, talking, and looking down at the grass, and the gravel, should the soggy keys magically appear.

They did not. I returned to the common area to the breakfast buffet. I placed items on the plate and settled in for another round of workshops.

Taking a seat, I began eating when Meg raised her hand and said, Renea, are these your keys?

From Meg’s beautiful hand dangled my room and car keys.

Of course they are my keys, I responded. I was just praying. I took the keys. “I’m curious, how did you get them?

“Someone found them lying in the concrete walkway,” she replied.

 

Renea Winchester is the award-winning author of In the Garden with Billy, and, Farming Friends and Fried Bologna Sandwiches by Mercer University Press. She is currently working on her novel, Outbound Train,  set in her hometown of Bryson City

One Person

There’s this person . . . this one person who irritates the dickens out of you.

You know that God commands you to love them.

You want to love them as commanded.

Really, you do.

You want to love the devil clean out of them.

You pray, “Lord, help me love this person even though I do not like this person.”

You pray, “Lord, put a watch over my mouth.”

You pray, “Lord, please . . . please, keep this person from provoking me to anger.”

You pray, “Lord, when provoked, let me take the high road.”

You pray, and pray all while watching the person approach . . . all while knowing you might again fail the test.

Still you pray, “Lord help me.”

I’m not the only person who has someone in their life like this . . . right?

You feel that this one person was the very reason the Bible says, “We wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.”

This person has your number, at least the principalities and darkens has your number. Yes sir, they do.

We can see the goodness in this person, this one person God placed in our path to test us; but we also see a bad attitude, a short temper, a harsh tone and genuine dislike for things (sometimes for every-thing). This person pushes our buttons.

Still we pray, “Lord help me show this person your love.”

Then we fail.

We react.

We see their hateful attitude and match it with one of our own.

We lose our Jesus just long enough for the darkness to win.

And we feel lower than a snail’s belly (or maybe it’s just me).

And we pray, “Lord, what just happened?”

“Lord, what is wrong with me?”

“Lord, why can’t I be more like you?”

And we find comfort in the scripture that was written especially for us which reads, “His mercy is knew every morning.”

Renea will donate the proceeds of her Christmas Story: A Hardscrabble
Christmas  and In the Garden with Billy to the victims she met at The Distribution Center in Gatlinburg Tennessee. Download it here.

Renea Winchester is a traditionally-published author of three books. She is a Jesus lover, a gardener, and a giver of hugs. She may be reached at P.O. Box 404, Webster NC 28788

 

Turning my back on the world

I have recently taken two steps back from Social Media. I distance myself not because of politics, or offense. I haven’t wavered from my philosophy of love. I distance myself because God is nudging me, whispering in my ear. I took one step back, and then another, for a bit of solitude and spiritual healing.

Funny how I long for solitude these days. Each day, I speak to a hundred people, or more. This constant flow of energy leaves me spent. My social media distance is paired with zero television. If you’ve read my first book, In the Garden with Billy, you know that I punted cable television a long time ago. Frankly, I haven’t the time to sit in front of the television. There are only so many hours in our short time on this earth. I have people to love, lives to help, and goats to feed. Still, the world pulls at me. Last week, I was reminded of something my friend says, the world is trying to take away my Jesus; meaning the more time spent in the world, the more time it demands. The more time spent in the world, the more I act like the world, and the less I act like Him.

This, my friends, is a command from long ago. . . come out from among the world and be set apart.

For me, the media silence serves a higher purpose, to keep my mind in the present, and my eyes on Him. I have found that if I take my eyes off Him for a single day then one day quickly becomes two days and so on. After doing things “my way” I find myself lost calling, “Lord, where are you!”

The Lord is always where I left Him. It is I who must return.

Earlier this year, a friend posted her resolution which went something like this. She was going To Be.

Those two simple words carry an enormous challenge. Dear Ones, it is very difficult To Be.

I’ve thought about those words, and the challenge they carry. Then I added a single word behind them. I want . . .

To Be Still

To Be Fervent

To Be Authentic

To Be His

I understand now that the world has a goal. The world wants to keep me (and you) busy, beat down, frustrated, angry, exasperated, depleted. The word accomplishes this, daily.

The world is like a pitching machine, hurling one fastball after the other. Just when we make contact and smile as the ball sails over the fence, the world fires a curve-ball, knocking us into the dirt leaving us exhausted, dazed and disoriented. Here lately, the world has convinced us this type of life is normal. Today, I disagree. Today, I turn a blind eye on the ways of the world and turn a watchful and trusting eye toward Him.

Today, I give myself permission to be set apart from the world.

Today, I give myself permission to be happy.

Today, I give myself permission to be authentic.

Today, I give myself permission to be His.

Today, I step away from the pitching machine. I drop my bat in the dirt. I look at the world and say, No more.

The Good Lord has reminded me that I don’t need a political cause. I don’t need to scream like a banshee to help those in need. Show me where Jesus screamed. Show me where he unfriended people. Show me where Jesus was nasty. My Jesus― the one the world is trying to take from us all―loved the least of these. Our Jesus hung out with those whom the world shunned. The Light of This World, physically healed them. He raised the dead. He performed miracles. He LOVED.

As Southern grandmas are wont to say, we accomplish more with honey (meaning love), than with vinegar (meaning anger).

Anger exhausts. Love empowers.

Today, I give you permission to be. Go on now, unplug from the world and go. . . Go be love.

Southern grandmas know that this world will devour every ounce of energy you offer; yet, energy deposited into the Lord and His children (meaning everyone) is never wasted. Spiritual renewal benefits me, and everyone around me.

Today, I will pray. I will listen. I will act, and I will continue to show others His love.

I will try—very much so― To Be.

To Be Renewed.

To Be Love.

To Be His hands and Feet.

For me, the only way I can do this is to turn a blind eye and walk away from the ways of the world and purpose to love the people Jesus places in my path.

Renea will donate the proceeds of her Christmas Story: A HardscrabbleChristmas  and In the Garden with Billy to the victims she met at The Distribution Center in Gatlinburg Tennessee. Download it here.

Renea Winchester is a traditionally-published author of three books. She is a Jesus lover, a gardener, and a giver of hugs. She may be reached at P.O. Box 404, Webster NC 28788

 

Chocolate Covered Cherries and the High Cost of Gatlinburg Living: Stories from The Distribution Center

I knew he would eventually come to the Distribution Center. I’d already had a little talk with The Good Lord because here lately The Good Lord has put a lot of people in my path who need help; fortunately he’s put y’all in my path as well, because I  need your help.

Monty (name changed) wore a coat. He said he had a few clothes too. I eyeballed him skeptically, figured that if I dug down to the truth of the matter he probably needed  pack of socks and underwear; but I’m a woman and he’s seventy-years-old. Shopping for unmentionables is tad embarrassing (which is why they magically appeared in the buggy later while he wasn’t watching).

“Just need a few things . . . not much,” he said as we head down aisle one, personal hygiene.

As with other shoppers I explain the drill. I open a large green bag and say, “This is yours. You want something, it’s yours.”

“You look on this side, “ I point to the left. “I’ll get you a toothbrush and some toothpaste.” I say this knowing that Depends are opposite the toothpaste, as are feminine hygiene products. Everyone deserves privacy, and to be treated with dignity and respect.

Rounding aisle two we find the priceless handheld can opener and cleaning supplies. “I’m staying with a friend,” he said, “don’t really need cleaning supplies, but I could use some toilet paper.”

Raisins and nuts sit alongside paper products. Having spent the last few months shopping for my dad, I have a pretty good idea that non-cooking seventy-year-old-men like (and need) healthy snacks.

“Raisins?” I ask.

Monty nods.

Digging through the shelf I present him with a two-pound bag of walnuts.

“Look what I found. . . bet I can talk you into these.”

Monty smiles, “I do like a walnut.”

Widow’s Knob Apartments after the fire

“Where were you living when the fire hit?” I ask the question for confirmation. I’d seen Monty throughout the years. Seen him as I walked the sidewalk from Mynatt Park toward Gatlinburg. Seen him through the pinched-back sheet that doubled as a curtain. I’m pretty sure he had seen me as well.

He lived in Widow’s Knob Apartments, a place many tourists never saw; a place most locals deemed an eyesore. In fact, most locals reading this may have secretly wished the City would condemn the place. I don’t know the history, but the building has been there a long time. So long that pieces of the fascia were gone and the paint faded. I’m sure the place was home to all types of critters, but Monty lived there and that’s all that mattered.

Monty lived there and now he doesn’t.

When natural disasters happen the need for housing is immediate and urgent. In Gatlinburg, the need for affordable housing (for workers and the common folk) has been urgent for a while. We just ignore the housing problem because (and here’s where the hate mail will start coming in), property owners can make a pile more money renting to tourists at $150-350 a night than they can renting to workers at $ 1,400 a month.

I’ve been told $1,400 a month is the going rental rate these days. Our buddy “Jack” paid $800 a month for a tiny cabin with no kitchen!

See why young people, and workers earning minimum wage, have no choice but to sublease?

Since my first blog post about “Jack,” (whose real name I will NOT release, please stop asking), people have been blowing up my phone telling me about the rental crisis in Gatlinburg. When the only available housing costs $ 1,400 a month, the leaseholder (who first needs a good credit rating in order to secure a lease), must sublease a room in order to keep a roof overhead.

Oh and for that $ 1,400 a month said leaseholder might get a two bedroom apartment.

Does Monty have $ 1400 a month by which to afford housing?

Do you?

Fortunately Monty is staying with a friend, but right now, hundreds of workers are homeless. These are single folk, college kids, entire families with young children and pets. This homeless status may become permanent if local officials don’t act quickly. I have heard about a few business owners who plan to build low income housing on their now-singed and vacant lots. (Yeah!!! Good News). The City needs to expedite permits for those landowners; especially since the tourist season is winding down. Affordable housing should be built first, in advance of replacement rental cabins. (I know, more hate mail is on the way).

I have also heard about property owners opening rental cabins to people. Thank you. We need MORE people doing that. And yes, we will remember who turns away folk with the statement “we don’t rent to locals.”

I understand that business owners don’t want small kids cramped into a room for the long-haul, but what about a week? Any hotel with an empty room should be thrilled to fill it right now.

And to those who tell me that the Red Cross shelter IS open in Gatlinburg at the City Community Center, could someone relay that information to the person(s) answering the phone at the Community Center? And could someone also relay that information to the local Red Cross staff who directed me to Pigeon Forge and gave me the number 865-429-7373. I realize we are in the middle of a disaster, but staff need to relay factual information when someone calls! Who can work on making sure callers receive correct information?

Back to Monty . . . this little precious homeless man with a bag full of dried fruit and nuts. He shuffled alongside me and found a jar of honey roasted nuts which he carefully removed from the shelf and said, “I shore do like me some honey roasted p-nuts. Think I could have these too or do I need to put the walnuts back?”

Bless him.

I opened the bag and said, “Throw ‘em in here. Now, what about coffee? Looks like they have coffee today. I’d get some if I were you, before it’s all gone.”

He settled upon the instant kind, and then plucked a couple packets of instant creamer to go with it.

Monty smiles. “Lawz-a-mercy, I didn’t expect to see those here,” he said as I exchanged his full bag for an empty one. “My people sure know how to help, don’t they?”

“Need peanut butter? Jelly? Crackers?”

Three nods. Three smiles.

“What about chocolate covered cherries?”

“Ooh yes, everyone loves a chocolate covered cherry.”

I feel good, hopeful for Monty’s future. He should qualify for help, please Father let him qualify for help because Lord knows how much he’ll pay in rent.

We progress to the cereal where Monty wants to discuss the nutritional benefit of oatmeal versus Cheerios™.

“Why not get both,” I suggest.

“By golly, I think I will,” Monty says as if having two types of breakfast foods in the pantry is an uncommon luxury.

Monty looks across the aisle, “There’s my buddy,” he says and steps away from our cart to greet his friend.

“Cowboy!” You’re here too, Monty exclaims.

Cowboy turns, his face is lined with worry.

“Lookie here, I got me a redhead,” he said while pulling me toward him in a tight hug. “And I got me a box of Chocolate Covered Cherries. Things is looking up!”

Footnote:

If you are offering housing IN GATLINBURG, send me a comment. Please know that displaced folk who do not have transportation need housing, in Gatlinburg.

Thank you to whoever has donated packs of underwear and cases of chocolate covered cherries and every other lovely item imaginable. Remember NO MORE INKIND DONATIONS ARE BEING ACCEPTED AT THIS TIME. We need volunteers to unload previously donated items. We need you, now. The BEST way to help is take a vacation to Sevierville, TN and come to the distribution center. Hundreds of people are needed. If you can afford it, come with a some money in your pocket to give to someone God places in your path.

Why this matters to me? Read here.

Who was first to help feed the displaced? Jeromy York. Read here and support him.

Additionally: President Obama Declares Sevier-County Disaster Area. 

Like this story? Renea is donating the proceeds of her Christmas Story: A Hardscrabble Christmas  and In the Garden with Billy to the victims she meets at The Distribution Center. Download it here.  And please follow my blog by typing your email into the “Follow” link.

Note: I can NOT add a Paypal Code to this free blog site. I will contact you via email with instructions on how to donate if you desire. Please be patient as this little blog post is getting quite a bit of attention.

Renea Winchester is a traditionally-published author of three books. She is a Jesus lover, a gardener, and a giver of hugs..