More Than Satisfied

We were trying to get some work done, my husband and I. It was evening, the end of a long day, and we sat on the couch with our laptops
open. In an attempt to create a quiet space in which to concentrate, we told our energetic kids to settle in with some books.

Jackson, 10, took forever to arrange himself in front of the fire with floor pillows and throw blanket and dog. But finally he quieted—and within minutes was snoozing, the book he was supposed to be reading splayed across his
chest.

Meanwhile, Madeline, 8, nestled herself in the big armchair with a chapter book and started reading at page one. Except to get up to fetch an apple, she was quiet and still…absorbed. An hour later, she closed her book. “I’m finished.” She stretched and came over to me. “I feel satisfied right after I finish reading a long book.”

I hugged her—couldn’t help myself. She is a girl after my own heart! I love that she’s discovered—at such a young age!—the pleasure of losing oneself in a good story. I love knowing that a lifetime of discovery and connection awaits her.

All of which makes me feel more than satisfied. It makes me downright happy.

My Calling

Everyone has a story to tell.

As a writer, that’s the mantra I live by. I got my start by writing true stories—teaching memoir-writing at the local community college and freelancing to magazines. Then I found myself listening to the whispered stories of imaginary characters, which led me into novel-writing as I realized that these stories held no less value for the fact that they sprang from my imagination. Now I write both—true stories (memoirs) and fiction (novels).

All of which leads me to profess two things I love about Jesus. One, He told stories. He recognized their transforming power—the way they bypass the intellect and sneak instead through the backdoor to the soul. Two, I love that He made us in His image to carry on His creative work. He calls us to do it.

It's my calling. Is it yours too? If so, what are you going to do about it?

Share your thoughts in a comment, and I’ll enter you in a drawing to win $50-worth of professional editing or consulting services—which you can keep for yourself or give to someone you love, whose story needs to be told. (U.S. residents only, please.)

Home Is Where the Suitcases Are, a postscript

With client Jim Beckwith. Home Is Where the Suitcases Are is the posthumously published memoir of Jim's wife, Marilyn.

Home Is Where the Suitcases Are

The foreword to Home Is Where the Suitcases Are.

Marilyn Beckwith knew how to dream big dreams. I knew this as soon as her daughter Karen introduced us, when I learned she was writing a memoir chronicling her family’s adventures in Africa in the early 1970s. That experience was in itself the realization of another of Marilyn’s dreams. As a girl growing up in Medford, Oregon, she’d dreamed of traveling the world. Married to Jim, she did just that—many times over.

When I met Marilyn, she and Jim were retired, which allowed her time to pursue her book-writing dream. In fact, she envisioned Home is Where the Suitcases Are as the first of several books about her family’s many years abroad. Marilyn was an experienced communicator: a lifelong letter-writer and editor to her husband’s technical missives, she was also writer and editor for the National Iranian Television Network. She was, in fact, heading for a position as an anchor before politics forced her family’s evacuation of Tehran.

I, meanwhile, was a fledgling freelance writer who taught memoir-writing at the local community college. We each had something the other needed: another writer’s keen eye to hone our work in an iron-sharpens-iron way.

Over the next decade, Marilyn continued to revise her manuscript until at last it was completed. She then cast her eye on the next big dream: to see it published. Sadly, this didn’t happen. In early 2011, Marilyn suffered a brain hemorrhage from which she never recovered. On February 15, 2011, she died at the age of 78.

Her husband, Jim, however, wasn’t about to let her dream go, and the book you hold is the result of his determination to see it through. You’ll be so glad he did. Home is Where the Suitcases Are is brimming with Marilyn’s warmth and wisdom and wit. You’ll feel she’s speaking directly to you in all of her candor and humor. You’ll see that her stories were written for the adventurer-at-heart—people like her, who dared to dream big.

And if you’re one of those folks whose dream still beckons you—if Marilyn’s stories inspire you to take that next step toward whatever adventure calls your name—well. That was one of Marilyn’s big dreams too.

Katherine Jones
November 11, 2011

Gifts of the Season, a postscript

Did she like it? people have asked. Did Madeline like her gift?

I'll let you be the judge. :)

Gifts of the Season, a story

“New hockey gloves,” said ten-year-old Jackson. “That’s what I want to buy with my money.” Our family was driving to one of Jack’s hockey games the day after an early Christmas celebration, during which both kids had received a crisp fifty dollar bill from their Papa Jones. They were pondering what they might do with that kind of loot.

“How about you, Madeline?” I asked our daughter, age seven.

Silence from the backseat while she considered the question. Then a happy gasp. “I know! I’ll buy Benny.”

Scott and I chuckled. Benny played goalie for Jackson’s team and as such had recently secured our daughter’s admiration. At an out-of-state tournament a few weeks earlier, we’d gotten to know Benny and his dad, Pat, a bit—well enough to know that the pink ribbon tattooed on Pat’s arm honored his wife, now two years breast cancer-free. And to know that Pat was a stay-at-home dad, while his wife, a physician, supported the family. All of which we found pretty cool.

When we saw Pat at the game, we relayed Madeline’s wish. Pat grinned. “There are days when Benny’s for sale,” he said. We laughed.

Three days later, at the boys’ next practice, Pat approached me as I huddled beneath my blanket on the chilly rink bleachers. He handed me a manila envelope. Puzzled, I slid its contents into my hand—an 8x10 glossy of goalie Benny sprawled across the ice as he blocked an opponent’s shot. And on the back, his signature: Merry Christmas. Ben #19.

I looked up at Pat. “For Madeline?” I asked and he nodded. I felt warm, despite my frosty surroundings, touched by Pat’s playful thoughtfulness. Discovering the autographed photo beneath the tree on Christmas would certainly make our daughter’s day. But more than that, I recognized the gesture as the gift of friendship—in any year, at any age, one of the very best gifts of the season.