Newsletter

When I was wrapping up the final edits on The Mercy Seat, Kay and I had dinner with dear friends Bill and Derri Smith. Derri had recently retired as the director of an organization devoted to rescuing victims of human trafficking. I shared with them the story of The Mercy Seat and that I was considering a sequel that would have human trafficking as a theme. Derri committed to “looking over my shoulder” in the writing of The Stranger at the Door. Thus began a beautiful back and forth of Derri confirming or correcting my choices throughout the course of writing.

As with The Mercy Seat, The Stranger at the Door was plotless when I sat down to write. Because it is a sequel there was much I needed to address. The story begins six months after the ending of The Mercy Seat and opens with Maxwell Crane struggling with emotional and psychological pain as a result of his impulsive choices to defend his son against a real and present danger.

Once I established Maxwell’s trauma, a stranger arrived at the front door of the church and the Crane family takes her in. Life spirals out of control. I created a world that was dark and dangerous but based in a reality that few of us truly know or want to know. Thanks to Derri Smith, the created world of The Stranger at the Door rings true and the twists and turns of the action and the character choices follow a fascinating logic.

I always enjoy the process of writing, but Stranger had a special pleasure because every character (the old ones and the new) had a believable persona and a character path with specific motivations that allowed them to make believable choices—good and bad—in hopes of achieving what they desired. I tried to keep out of their way and let the story unfold as they wished for it to be told. I never knew what my characters might do until they appeared in my imagination. I just prayed my fingers wouldn’t fail me as I kept typing.

The Stranger at the Door takes a hard look at human trafficking that happens in plain sight, yet so often is never seen by the general populace. My desire is that the reader will have a meaningful experience in this journey through unfamiliar territory, and while at times it might make the reader squirm, I hope it will also offer an understanding for those who cry out for rescue from the dark corners of the world.

It should come as no surprise that I love to amble well-worn paths through the great outdoors. I live by Gandolph’s line in The Hobbit, “All that wander are not lost.” Though there was that time on the Isle of Skye when Kay dropped me off along the southern coastline, and she took off in search of the famous Fairy Pools when the rugged coastal path turned east into the emerald hills and I was, huh, bewildered.

When I descended into the valley the trail disintegrated into an open field with a flock of sheep scattering at my approach taking several escape routes, all of which could qualify as the trail I needed. The hills and pastures were before me and the sea behind me. No sign of humanity except for one lone cottage on the other side of the inland. I looked to the north and saw where two hills converged. Even if there was no path, I believed I would gain enough elevation to find a way out.

Eventually, a path appeared, and just at dark, Kay met me on a one-lane road. In our hours of separation, she found no fairies or pools. I found the renewed sense of wonder at the beauty of land and sea, hill and sky, clouds and weather.

I discovered a John Muir quote that references the etymology of the word “saunter.” In the Middle Ages pilgrims would travel to the Holy Land. As they passed through the villages along the way and were asked where they were headed, the response was, “A la sainte terre, To the Holy Land.” The pilgrims became known as “sainte-terre-ers” or “saunterers.”

Muir did not care for the word “hike” or for all that it demands of the person before one even gets to a trail. Muir thought such detailed preparations for “hiking” robbed the soul of the enjoyment being in the presence of natural beauty. Muir said, “People ought to saunter in the mountains—not hike.” He considered our American landscapes “our Holy Land,” and to reverently saunter through them.

I remember as a young boy my father singing this lyric from an old German folk song, “The Happy Wanderer.” The lyric went, “I love to go a wandering along the mountain track. And as I go I love to sing, ‘My knapsack on my back.’” Dad was like Muir, always encouraging his kids to get out there and become a part of the wonder and beauty of nature.

Find a trail. Saunter for a while. Wander.

I was born into a world of whiteness: neighborhood, private school, and church; shuttled through that triplicate of colorless environs without wondering or questioning what other members of the human race might exist beyond those confines. In childhood my only exposure to other racial groups was when missionaries came to our church and gave slide-show presentations of their adventures in “seeking and saving the lost” in exotic places around the world. It was the only time I ever heard my mother complain about our required attendance at church. “Lord, spare me from seeing another picture of a smug missionary posing with the indigenous people he’s baptized.” Such impiety from a worship leader’s wife.

When I was nine we moved to Bloomington, Indiana for Dad to begin his doctoral pursuit in choral music at Indiana University. We lived there two years, and my world was turned upside down. I attended public school, which exposed me to multiple nationalities. I formed three close friendships with a boy from Israel, one from Sweden, and an African American, Raymond Brown (top left, me, and bottom right, Raymond). Raymond and I had an instant bond probably because of the constant smile on his face. Raymond looked at the world and found it humorous.

One day after coming inside from recess, Raymond and I still had some energy to burn and we began to scuffle. Isn’t that what boys do…scuffle? The teacher had yet to enter the classroom so we had no fear of her reprimand. Our bodies got entangled, and we fell upon my desk on the back row crashing onto the floor. We had only seconds to right the desk, get in our seats, and feign an expression of innocence before our teacher entered the room. As a result of our playful scuffling, I had cut my hand and Raymond had skinned his knee, both wounds producing a fair amount of blood.

“Let’s be blood-brothers,” he exclaimed. And I thought, why waste two good wounds? So, I slapped my bloody hand down upon Raymond’s bloody knee and our bloodstreams comingled. A few years ago, I learned of Raymond shuffling off his mortal coil. Given his joyful nature, I’m sure he left behind many wonderful memories for his family and friends. I have my own memories of my delightful friend, and the science to match it.

Once upon a time, way back in the day, my sister, Nan, and I attended Pepperdine University in Malibu, California. One day Jon Voight came to the campus to talk to the students. The film “Deliverance” had just released, and as our family was “of the theatre” as well as being white-water enthusiasts, Nan and I were dying to meet him. We waited for the right moment after his presentation and were able to walk him to his car sharing our theatrical background and canoeing stories along the way. He then invited us to come see him in “A Street Car Named Desire,” with Faye Dunaway.

Here was a dilemma: we were now BFF’s with Jon Voight, and his personal invitation to see his show; however, we were economically unable to commit to such an expensive event. In the hustle and flow of creative alternatives to find a way around our pecuniary quandary our imaginations began to stir. We could only afford one ticket, a student ticket at that. And here was where our delinquent minds kicked into gear.

There were multiple entrances into the theatre, and the night we attended, we scoped out which entrance was most clogged with patrons. We spied a bottleneck at one entrance, and Nan squeezed herself into the middle of it. The next thing I knew, she was waving at me through the glass window from inside the lobby.

The purchased ticket got me inside, and I then gave Nan the stub for the legit seat while I waited for the houselights to go out before slipping into the theatre. When I was stopped by an usher, I explained that my sister had the ticket, and I would sit on an empty back row and join her later never specifying how much later. That fabrication proved sufficient, and I watched the play from the back of the house.

After the show we went outside to the stage door and slipped in when no one was looking. We explained to the security guard that we were here to see Mr. Voight, and Nan flashed the ticket stub for good measure. He pointed down the hall to the dressing rooms and said, “Mr. Voight’s name is on the door.”

When Jon opened the door he was a bit surprised to see the brother/sister duo, his new best friends and fellow thespians from Pepperdine University. He “acted” like he remembered us, inviting us into the room, and introducing us to Mrs. Voight sitting in a corner, feet propped on a chair, her hands perched atop a rounded tummy. She was great with child and indulged us with a smile while patting her belly housing the future Ms. Angelina Jolie. And so, given our close and personal history, I keep waiting for the call to co-star in Ms. Jolie’s next film. I mean, come on, we’re friends…right?

Psalm 90 is the only psalm attributed to Moses. Likely written at the end of his life, this psalm is seasoned with age and wisdom. Moses lived his life in three acts: as an Egyptian prince, as a shepherd, and then the demanding life as a leader of a nation. Psalm 90 is a short reflection on what he lived through and how God established the work of his hands.

Moses recognized two attributes of God in this psalm in relationship to Israel: first, that God had been their dwelling place, even in the howling wilderness with no permanent place to dwell; and second, God’s covenantal presence was everlasting.

Before creation, God was, is and always will be. Moses can only offer a numerical explanation to this aspect of God’s nature, “For a thousand years in Your sight is like a day.” He compares that to the temporal duration of a human to seventy to eighty years. Even with our advances in science, that lifespan hasn’t changed for millenniums. The true meaning here is that God is not subject to our sense of time.

Moses acknowledges the burdensome weight of his leadership, which is to say, his job, but in his final days, was probably spent with a host of scribes putting the final touches on the Torah, fine tuning his experiences, and recording the communication with and the instruction from God. Then Moses climbed Mount Nebo for a front row seat to watch the parade as Israel crossed the Jordan. I can imagine his sigh of relief once the Levites shouldered the Ark of the Covenant and led the way into the promised land.

In his final thoughts, Moses encourages the reader to seek God for wisdom to know how to make the most of one’s work in the brief time we have on earth. He closes his psalm saying “…establish the work of our hands for us—yes, establish the work of our hands.” This is not a plea to shield us from hardship or to make us successful and increase our personal wealth. Rather, to establish our work so that it might glorify God. In spite of the toilsome nature of our work, our labor can be proved as a redemptive gift. I pray that for the coming year the Lord will establish the work of your hands. Go forth mightily.

In an article in the “Journal of the American Revolution,” David Malinsky writes that the First Continental Congress passed the Articles of Association making a distinction between what were acceptable pastimes and what were not: “…and we will discountenance and discourage every species of extravagance and dissipation, especially all horse-racing, all kinds of gaming, cockfighting, exhibitions of shows, plays and other expensive diversions and entertainments.”

This declaration had a chilling effect leaving theaters empty and even forcing one homegrown theater troupe, the American Company, to leave the country and set up shop in Jamaica. Big, bad politicians huffed and puffed, and for a time, blew the house down. Around the same time, individual states also passed laws banning plays, and in 1794, the president of Yale College, Timothy Dwight IV, declared in his “Essay on the Stage,” that “to indulge a taste for play-going means nothing more or less than the loss of that most valuable treasure: the immortal soul.”

Apparently a few of our founding fathers did not subscribe to this proclamation. George Washington recorded detailed entries in his diaries commenting on his frequent attendance at theaters in Williamsburg, Philadelphia, New York, and Alexandria, Virginia to see productions by professional acting troupes. Washington had favorite actors and was known to attend a production he liked more than once. According to Odai Johnson in his book, “Jefferson and The Colonial American Stage,” Thomas Jefferson and Washington attended the same theatrical performance on eight occasions. 

The efforts of some to block or ban what they deemed offensive or distasteful has been going on since…well, forever. Fortunately, arts and entertainment have survived and thrived regardless of efforts to restrict or prohibit artistic expression. Imagine wagging a finger at God and admonishing, “Hide the naughty parts,” when it came to sculpting Adam and Eve.

There is an expression of someone being “raised right.” I’m not sure of its origin, but I do believe my siblings and I were raised right by parents who gave us a beautiful mixture of a living, breathing faith that looks like something, and a passion for and participation in the creation of all things artistic. This includes a love for all those individuals involved in such pursuits. Our imagination might be the greatest gift we humans have and such a gift cannot be banned by laws or restricted by misguided biases.

I have often been asked the favorite character I have played. My standard answer has been, “the one I am currently playing.” I don’t mean that as a smug response to a genuine inquiry, but the question is difficult to answer. I have been so fortunate to play such a variety of roles, both small and large, and each one brings a richness to my life.

I rarely repeat a role, but there is one role I never tire of playing, Ebenezer Scrooge in Charles Dicken’s “A Christmas Carol.” I am thrilled to perform this role again in a production with Rabbit Room Theatre. (check the RR website for all info) This new adaptation by A.S. Peterson is the best version of the play I’ve ever read.

In preparing for this role, Mr. Peterson sent me a one-man play written by Dean Batali based on Charles Dickens’ notes and thoughts on the creation of this classic story. As I studied this excellent work I discovered some interesting thoughts on the combination of the words “Bah,” and “Humbug.”

The word “humbug” was widely used long before Dickens employed it. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, humbug referred to “a hoax; a jesting or befooling trick,” as well as any “thing which is not really what it pretends to be,” like a sham or fraud. And as for “Bah,” well, it is simply a one-syllable noise used to express contempt and annoyance. And “bah” means “bah” in any language.

Dickens points out that while he did not invent either word, he does credit himself as the one who put the two words together and in that order. Whenever Scrooge is saluted with a “Merry Christmas” his response is “Bah”, the rejection of all-things represented in the merriment of the season. But when hailed with “God save you,” his reply is “Humbug.” This is a rejection of redemption itself. Scrooge thinks he does not require redemption and has no inkling that he is about to receive its offer.

The hounds of heaven in the form of four different spirits come on a rescue mission for Mr. Scrooge. These spirits will take a chisel to the hardened heart of this man. What will be found inside the cemented casement? You must come and see.

An engagement, a marriage, unemployment for one spouse, pregnancy, eviction, multiple living quarters including an unfinished attic, the kickoff of a writing career, the arrival of a first child, unemployment for the other spouse, all followed by a cross-country move with a four-month old daughter leaving behind kith and kin in search of fame and fortune. What do all these factors have in common? You guess it…Kay and Chip. Oh yeah, and cram all these events into fourteen months.

I can think back on some of the decisions and choices I’ve made in life and wonder, “What was I thinking,” but marrying Kay was not one of them. After we signed, sealed, and transacted the ceremony, we headed off to Green Turtle Cay for our honeymoon. Green Turtle is a three-mile long, one half mile wide island accessible only by boat.

There were a few bungalows scattered about on both ends of the island, and on the central part there was the yacht club and a small, gated community of luxury homes owned by the gentry from other countries. We were the only ones to have rented a bungalow for that week, so the whole southern end of the island was ours. To see other humans required a walk into the village. We made the trek once, maybe twice.

When we returned from Green Turtle, life rapidly descended into chaos: lost jobs, lost housing; and within two months of our “I do’s,” lost autonomy of our couple-hood. My mother fondly called our honeymoon spot, “Fertile Green Turtle.” Nine months and four days after the wedding (Yes, Mother was counting the days), we were blessed with our first daughter.

Now when faced with the heavy realities of life, the expectation was that I should step up and take responsibility. “Get a real job,” I was told by one person, and “The Lord helps those who help themselves,” I was informed by another. Well-meaning though not biblical advice as the quotes infered.

In the midst of our topsy-turvy world, I chose not to look for that “real job,” but to write a biblical play on the apostle Paul. He had a “real job” until he took that road to Damascus. His life was turned upside down, but out of his experience a new world was created. We are all world-builders. Don’t be afraid of that Damascus road before you. Take it and create a world from all your adventures. One must live the adventure before it’s told.

Socrates said, “The misuse of language induces evil in the soul.” Through the art of storytelling, I as a writer and actor, want to convey in words an idea or belief that might entertain or inspire a reader or an audience, to strengthen the heart and mind, to enliven the soul, to boost a deeper sense of our place in the world and the beauty found therein.

Encouraging words are like precious gems that can gladden the heart of the one who hears them, but also the one who speaks them. The speaker has had to go through the mental process of thinking of good words to say. It is a thoughtful process weighing the proper words. When we consider how we might speak words of encouragement to someone, we are not just thinking about what they might want to hear, but also what we might want to have someone say to us.

A couple of Hebrew proverbs come to mind. Proverbs 18:21 says, “Death and life are in the power of the tongue, and those who love it will eat its fruit.” Anyone with the ability to speak wields power, but have we ever considered just how powerful? This proverb states that what we say, the words we use to communicate, can influence life or death. There are consequences to everything we say. Our words can bring healing and comfort (life) or can break a heart with discouragement and despondency (death). Control over what we say and how we say it is important.

One proverb that inspires conversation is Proverbs 27:17, “As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another.” When we spend quality time engaged in social interaction our hearts and minds are stimulated and we develop and improve our personal character and deepen our relationships with other people.

The “iron sharpens iron” should not be interpreted as combative. It is like filing down an object to make it sharper, more useful, keener in purpose. Listening and conversing can equip us with knowledge we might not have known before or help us unlearn something that we thought we knew but knew incorrectly.

Good words brings joy, they provide insight, deepen the truth, expose falsehood, and can strengthen our souls, so use them well and often.

One time our daughter Lauren asked her son how he might describe Kay. His answer was immediate. “Angels Ascending,” he said. Ah, how sweet, you say. But wait, there’s more. It was not long after that we received a call from said daughter worried about an excess if influence her mother had on her children.

The complaint had to do with Kay’s lullaby catalog sung to the grands when she puts them to bed. I had long since been banned from lullaby duty. The times I would pinch-hit for Kay all I came up with was “Stairway to Heaven” and “Born to be Wild;” lullabies good enough to sing to my own girls when they were growing up but were now deemed questionable. I blame the parenting craze for that.

What precipitated the call, you ask? The parents were in the car with the kids when they began singing, “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall.” The lyric sung by the grands began with the number ten and not the compulsory number in the title. To be sure of what they heard, the parents listened to a few more musical rounds until the number dropped to seven. The parents first inquired of each other to see if either of them had taught the kids that song, but both denied the charge. Then they questioned the cherubs in the backseat.

“Guys, where did you learn that song?” asked the parents in unison.

The grands got quiet. By the tone of the inquisition, they suspected trouble.

Then they blurted in unison, “Kayme!”

The horror. The horror. And straight to the speed dial the daughter did go.

As soon as Kay answered her phone the third degree began, though it did not last long. Kay laughingly confessed. On the night in question while the parents were out on a date and after the grands were tucked into bed, Kay began to sing her standards. But on this particular night, the grands were more amped up than usual.

Kay had come to the end of her play list, but those crazy kids wanted more. So she reached back to the long ago, and “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall” bubbled forth; this from the grandmother who has never consumed a bottle of beer in her life. Now the song has a fixed place in Kay’s lullaby repertoire. You gotta love this woman.

It is my lot to live with an angel, the comparisons are glaringly obvious, but she is fortunate that I am able to hold her feet on the ground and keep her from ascending too high.