The chapel at Calvin College in Grand Rapids, Michigan is a chapel in the round. The wooden ceiling shined golden and watched in expectation as the writers and readers and lovers of the Word poured in. I waited expectantly too, surrounded by goodness and hope. I saw the poet, Scott Cairns, recognizing him from a book I’d quickly browsed an hour ago. With his downward eyes and a black binder tightly clutched I imagined that he would not appreciate all of us waiting to hear from him, as though we were interrupting what he really wanted to do--write. A woman came in and sat beside him, greeting him with a smile and a few chatty words. A few moments later when Mr. Cairns went up to the podium the woman jumped in surprise as she realized that she had been sitting next to such a man who could command words that delve into the heart. Mr. Cairns stood and blessed us, calling us to worship in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. He read a poem. I leaned in.
Later that day I heard Mr. Cairns talk about poetry as writing that draws your attention to the words “as such” as opposed to prose in which you don’t notice the words (but some prose can be poetry, you know). As I listened to him read three poems in chapel that morning I was pulled in by the words, tasting each one as he meditated on faith and loss and beauty.
Mr. Cairns sat down and then three students stood and led us in singing “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing.” Now the goodness and hope came alive in singing as we surrounded each other with our voices.
I have sung in many places with many different groups of Christians, some I’ve known and some I’ve not known. Sometimes it feels awkward and forced, sometimes too pretentious. But this day, this hymn, was beautiful, fresh and alive.
So began my time at the Festival of Faith and Writing, an event for the writing world that takes place every two years at Calvin College. Thanks to my father-in-law’s suggestion and my husband’s practical encouragement (he took off work for two days to have fun with the kids) I attended for the first time. Though I was going on my own, at just the right time I rounded a corner and heard my name. It was my cousin’s wife Sonia. Someone knew I needed the companionship of someone who knew significant parts of my story for these few rich days, and in Sonia and her friend Karen I found that.
I’ve been home now for three weeks, and the things I learned and heard continue to be distilled in my mind Among the many gifts of those three days at Calvin College were a sense of calling in my writing, a sense of community among writers and a developing love for poetry (I confess--I have often not loved poetry).
The opening plenary session was given by Gene Luen Yang. Had I known ahead of time that he was a graphic novelist I would not have gone. What have I to do with graphic novels? I have always thought of them as something lesser (though truth be told, on the flight to Grand Rapids I devoured a book by Swati Avasthi, part of which was written in graphic form and it hit me hard in the gut). But because I am a rule follower (even if the rules are of my own making) and because I wanted to soak up every minute of the conference, I went to the session. At first I thought, “Why is he telling me all these things about his life?” But he was engaging and funny and had great graphics (of course) and soon, I was hooked. His topic, “Is Art Selfish?” is one I have often thought about. How can I take time away from my family and my, let’s face it, domestic work, in order to write about myself? Through telling us his story and how he has struggled with art’s place in his life, Mr. Yang elevated the importance of art in my own life. The most poignant point for me was that art is an act of service. Our children need our stories, our maps as they navigate the future. Paraphrasing Pope John Paul II, art contributes to the life and renewal of a people.
The breadth of speakers was wide. I moved from Gene Luen Yang to Scott Cairns to Shannon Huffman Polson, later hearing Luci Shaw, Suzanne Woods Fischer and many others.
And then two opportunities to hear Richard Foster, a serene and inspired man, if ever there was one, at peace with himself and at peace with God. He had stirring words for writers and speakers: we sweat and struggle to find the right word, words “forged on the hard anvil of a Christo-centric worldview.” When he was interviewed by his son Nathan, he thought through his words so carefully. I was suddenly reminded of my dad who is a careful thinker and speaker, not wasting words, choosing just the right one.
Though my notes from Foster’s talk cannot resurrect all of the true things he said, when I read them over again I am brought back to his value of good words, and the challenge he presented to me and others, to choose the right words. “Truth poorly expressed demeans us.” Words flash around the internet and the blogosphere, untested, untried. Like a father, gentle yet persuasive, Richard Foster held me to a higher standard.
Of all the many profound words spoken at the Festival, the ones I’ve retold most often are from Foster, as he sat on the stage—on the stage, not in a chair—legs hanging over the edge. He was asked how to deal with the busyness of our day. Swinging his legs, pondering, he slowly began, “It’s legitimate to say . . .NO!” The room shook as he shouted the last word and down to my core I began to work out the power of those words. I felt uneasy—could I really say no to things? In my desire to please, to accomplish . . . how could I say no? But writing must come from silence. We must relearn to be still, to wait, to hold our tongues. “Only then can we observe, ponder, wonder.”
Anne Lamott, whom everyone loves to quote, had a few gems for me too, nestled amongst her ramblings. She asked if we were holding our clipboards, walking around multitasking, trying to check things off and thinking that if we’d accomplished it all, then all would be well. It’s not true. It won’t work. Life and writing are very hard, Anne said, but multitasking won’t help.
If Richard Foster was the father or grandfather figure of the conference (in my mind) then Luci Shaw was the grandmother. At 85 years old in her turquoise suit, black tights and black shoes, Mrs. Shaw urged us to pay attention to the slow pleasures, reading us her poem by that name about the pleasures that words bring.
Luci Shaw’s advisor at Wheaton College was Clyde Kilby, legendary to us Wheaties from the 1990s. Her father wanted her to become a missionary, so when she declared her major as literature, her father approached Dr. Kilby and said, “Don’t dissuade my daughter from her calling as a missionary.” Dr. Kilby replied, “With all due respect sir, I believe that is your vision, not hers.”
Years later Dr. Kilby had a stroke. Luci was the last person he talked to before he died, and his words were, “You are a real poet and I love you.”
I was struck by these simple words and the impact they had on Luci, propelling her into her calling. I never imagined that “real” writers needed encouragement like this. But it was a theme I heard throughout the conference—writers’ insecurities and their gratitude for the encouragement they receive. And inside, a warmth spread through my heart as I thought of the many who have been Dr. Kilbys to me—the author/speaker who, while staying at my parents’ house left a note on one of my freshman papers telling me to keep writing, my aunts and uncles and friends whose emails and comments let me know my writing helps them understand themselves and me, the friend who tells me how my blogging from Germany sustained her in the midst of her pain, and of course my parents who read every word and ask for more. I thank you.
The closing plenary session was from Rachel Held Evans, ever ready to ask the un-askable questions and push to the heart of the matter. I was delighted to see in the program that she was speaking about jealousy, and also a little giddy that I was not the only one who felt jealous of other writers or inadequate with regards to my abilities.
But with such a topic, where can you go besides saying, “Don’t be jealous” or “They would probably be jealous of something you can do if only they knew”? Instead of all this, Rachel brought us to the gospel. She recounted the parable of the vineyard owner from Matthew 20, pointing out that our work is not a competition. It is worship. “We serve at the pleasure of a generous master. There is plenty of work to do.”
And now, it is time for me to end this post even though there’s always more to say. But, as Richard Foster and Jeanne Walker Murray both mentioned, we don’t write everything.
Many thanks to the organizers, students, speakers and my fellow attendees. See you in 2016!
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