angie dicken

Another post about writing

This quote justified what I’ve known to be true about my publishing journey. And I am trying to come to terms with where I go from here. Forgive me if I sound like a broken record, I know I have written about this before, but I am still wrestling with this and writing is how I work it out—and that’s telling…as you will see, but I won’t spell it out for you (wow, pun-time).

Currently, I am working on finding my love of story again. The royalties trickle in, and each time, I am reminded how the effort to get there broke me and how, finally, my passion oozed out until I just didn’t care to write one more word.

Freedom.

No contract, no guidelines, no selfie-world expectations.

My love of story dulled, and I’ve felt like its acquaintance for over 2 years…until, a spark was kindled by a contest prompt.

And I didn’t really focus on the reward from the contest. I wanted to prove (to myself) that I could write a story that I loved. A story that was from the heart and not mimicking a critique’s sentence structure or publisher’s formula. Kinda like how I wrote before I went to my first writer’s conference 16 years ago.

And so I wrote.

And I entered.

And I finaled.

And it will be published this fall. But the reward hasn’t had any affect on me like it might have had in the past, because the reward wasn’t what I was writing for.

And maybe there’s something to that.

All these years of striving to publish, to sell, to market myself had me put my desires on the reward.

What a shame.

I got caught up in the game.

Tossed my heart aside to make a buck and a like. I was never super good at it, now that I look back, because I was never ever satisfied (a Hamilton song comes to mind 😉).

Now, I am starting from scratch again. But I am not in it to win it (and I used a cliche and I don’t even care🤪). I am only wanting to continue to write because once upon a time (cliche #2), starting at the age of 8, I was in love with storytelling and it was fun and I always found time to write a story because it was just something I did—before anyone told me how to do it or said I had a chance or told me that I fell short of the right way to do it.

So maybe, 41 years after that initial spark, about 16 years after that publication pursuit, a few years of falling out of love with it, maybe writing has become a warmer acquaintance again.

We’re not chummy yet.

I don’t even know if I have it in me to write what I really want to write. I hardly know what that is right now.

But, I know the mistakes I have made—and it has little to do with sentence structure or plot points.

I don’t want to focus so much on me or the stuff, I just want to love to write again.

So, we’ll see.

When Moving Sucks

I feel like I have been here for a week.

It’s been a month.

The end of work, social gatherings, and impromptu run-ins with familiar faces have been replaced with unpacking hundreds of boxes, moving furniture, framing familiar faces and placing them around the house, and trying to be there for an isolated teen and aging dogs while feeling completely out-of-sorts myself.

Moving sucks.

It’s been way more disruptive than I thought it would be—I mean, I expected the chaos and upheaval of location changes and moving loads of stuff, but I wasn’t prepared for the continued emotional waves and the persistent silence and the grief.

I don’t feel like myself. And I feel pretty alone. Sure, I have two of my favorite people under the same roof, but I look in the mirror and don’t really know who I am anymore.

Sounds a little dramatic?

Yeah, that’s my middle name these days. Kinda floating in this weirdness of no roots, no face-to-face friendships, no satisfaction of a day’s worth of work (like,a job kinda work).

I have become a house-focused busy bee, and it just doesn’t satisfy at all.

So, I woke up this morning and gave myself a good talking to.

It’s so easy for me to focus on the negative. I’ve known this about myself for years. It’s one reason why I have stepped back from social media and the news. I lived in constant doomsday for so long.

But there are so many good things going on right now, and the shadow of sorrow has darkened my perspective. Instead of sitting here and spontaneously bursting into tears, I am choosing to remember the good things. I’ll admit—I feel a tad guilty for focusing on them when I know the sad things are ever present, but I just can’t go on living like this anymore—I need to find footing again.

So, the good things:

👉I love my new house. It’s not perfect, but it’s so pretty and perfectly ours. It’s felt like home ever since I first stepped foot in it.

👉My neighbors have been friendly—we’ve even gotten a few housewarming gifts. I feel like I am seen a little, which is always nice when you’re a stranger.

👉My sister is a day trip away! This hasn’t been the case in two decades! We’ve never had family near by. AND, my extended family is only a few hours north. I haven’t lived anywhere near them since 7th grade! Family gatherings might be a little more often than they’ve ever been for us.

👉People are visiting. Iowans have already slept under my roof, my sons are coming soon, and our other extended family and friends are penciling in visits. So much face-to face to look forward to.

👉Church is vibrant and friendly and I feel like it is a place I can connect in right away.

Good things, abound. I just need to take a breath and consider them every once in a while—or more often than that.

Before we made the big move, I scheduled a few appointments with my therapist. He warned me that I could get stuck in a depressive swing if I don’t connect with others in this new place. Yesterday, I thought about going to the gym to just say “hi” to the front desk person who recognizes us after a few encounters. But I talked myself out of it—I just didn’t want to put forth the effort.

But, besides primping my house and caring for my people under this roof, effort just must be made—to think of good things and to take steps connecting with others.

The thought of all this exhausts me. I keep telling myself, I am too old for this kind of life change.

But, I have to try. I have to find my footing and be a person again. I’m sick of floating and not recognizing myself anymore.

Moving sucks. But it’s time for it to be really good now. I just have to let it.

Why I Left Orthodoxy Once

I gave my catholic, apostolic upbringing a good ol’ college effort my first year at school. But while many accuse college campuses of liberal and anti-God ideas, they forget that college campuses offer the opposite too—fierce persuasion for fundamentalism, for tantalizing emotional worship, and backed by all the workings of ministry teams to successfully attract seekers.

For me, during my college years, a barrage of apologetics chipped away at my child-like adherence to the Tradition of the Orthodox Faith.

In the end, campus ministry, while good in many ways, encouraged me to self-interpret thousands’ years’ old wisdom from a 20th century, young adult perspective (And that is like convincing me I could practice psychology because I watched Dr. Phil). I was able to turn my back on “tradition” as I knew it, because I deducted it from the text.

God is great though—no matter where I landed, what pew or chair, what ministry or small group, He met me, and I grew in faith and love of Him, even ignored the possibility of my mis-interpretation for most of my adult life.

Truly, I am so thankful for my journey through different denominations—each one has the Grace of Christ, the Love of God, and the community of His people within their constructs. But the onslaught of theological interpretations and doctrines aren’t all beneficial—some are the opposite (we see this in the rise of politics influencing pulpits, celebrities pushing movements, and authors taking authoritative stances with minimal accountability).

Now, after 25 years immersed in fundamental Christianity, then 5 years of returning to the apostolic faith of Orthodoxy, I finally realize what tradition means and why it’s important. The tradition Scripture speaks about IS Life in Christ. It is the fullness of the Faith (what it looks like holistically). All the apologetics against tradition are referring to a modern definition of meaningless practices that one holds onto no matter what. This is not Biblical Tradition at all.

Once again, my favorite blogger explains it well:

For a variety of reasons, most people confuse “tradition” with the notion of “the way we have always done things.” This is neither its meaning nor does it express its importance. “Tradition” means that which has been “handed down,” or “delivered” to someone. It can refer to any number of things: beliefs, practices, authority, etc. However, here in St. John, we clearly have a reference to something being handed down which is itself “living.” What has been given is the “communion” with the Father and the Son, as well as a communion with the living community of the Church. And this communion is “life.” -Fr. Stephen Freeman

In this 21st century of pop-psychology and selfie love, with all the movements and philosophers and ideas muddying life since the first century, it’s no wonder that some circles have deduced Christianity to finding fullness in thoughts and feelings.

There is a danger in the bold marriage of cultural ideas and theological interpretations. They risk turning backs on a timeless, sacred way, untouched by modernity.

And our young adults are up against an onslaught of persuasion. I think when religion is tied to that—well, Life in Christ becomes abstract, and religious pursuit leaves so much goodness behind.

But, God is great. And He is always there, ready to be received, in all corners. His Tradition is to offer Life in the full. And it’s more than anything I can conjure up in my head, and it’s been lived out for centuries.

Until Next Time, Friend

It’s been a long road to acceptance of saying farewell to Iowa. I told my friends, the hardest part is going to be saying goodbye to my house, knowing I will never be able to go inside it again. And I literally imagined myself having a breakdown every time I thought about it.

During my last full day, I had a lot of time alone as I got it ready for the next homeowners. I focused mostly on the cleaning tasks at hand. But during the in-between: going upstairs, downstairs, leaving rooms and entering rooms, the concern needled its way into my thoughts, how will I say goodbye?

But, I found unexpected peace that last evening, and while I am not one to believe in signs very often, I’d like to believe that God gave me a gift, wiping away the dread of farewell,. For a moment, time stood still and I was amazed.

My kids know me by my love of sunsets. They text me when they see a particularly good one–and they don’t fuss too much when we are on vacation and have to hurry to catch the sun lowering to the horizon.

Many times, I’ve driven down our street around sunset-time, and I’d catch glimpses of the beauty amid the houses and trees. Sometimes, the sky showed off to the west of our deck, and sometimes, I sneaked a peak between our neighbors’ yards.

But on my very last night, locking up the house, the sunset was EVERYWHERE. Cotton candy-pink clouds billowed to the south and east and west and north–from my driveway and my deck and bathing the front of my house in a coral pink glow. Any onlooking neighbors might have thought that Angie was finally losing it as I boomeranged around the perimeter of our house, trying to catch the best view. But the best view was every view.

And I just knew.

I knew that I could leave. That our time was not only ending because we chose it, but because it was the time to go.

So, the next day, we hugged our boys and headed East. We grabbed a coke at Casey’s and a Dutch letter on the way, admired the head-high cornfields and rolling hills, and the big beautiful Midwest skies.

Funny little memory–when we approached the Mississippi River (the border of our state), you won’t believe what was on the radio–

“I’ve Had the Time of My Life”…LOL!

What a funny little thing. But a nice way to laugh amid the tears.

Oh, I have had the time of my life these past 17 years, IOWA. I have so enjoyed your beautiful backdrop to our family’s story.

Until next time, friend.

You are certainly the heartland…the land of my heart.

Why I stopped writing

“Poets and artists who are satisfied only by the delights experienced through art are like people who arrive at the doors of the Royal Palace but do not go in to the bridal feast, although they are invited to do so.”
St. Barsanuphius

I withdrew from writing because it had become an idol. And I mean it when I say, “become”. Early on in my writing career, I had accepted an invitation to use my writing for good. And I am certain that by the grace of God, my published stories contained goodness.

It is the author struggling behind the pages that soured in the end.

I don’t think any faith writer believes that idolatry could happen to them…I specifically remember a keynote speaker at a writer’s conference speaking of his own self-centered downfall—and I politely nodded and noted, but thought, Never me.

How easy it was to call a wolf a sheep…for years and years. Finally, my self-focus dulled my creativity.

I don’t think any artist is ever satisfied if their art becomes a pursuit of looks and likes, at least, I am not strong enough to endure the lacking nature of such a focus.

No matter my original intent or a like-minded industry—it’s too easy to settle in the culture of mirrors and adopt its strategies as ministry. My faith was not rooted enough to withstand the temptation. My heart was too delighted in the elation of success. And I stood on the doorstep, primping.

One day, my spiritual walk led me to a Church that didn’t allow me to focus on myself so much. Every Sunday, I literally looked into the eyes of Christ and the men and women who did amazing things for Him. I sang words about His sacrifice, said prayers venerating His glory. Soon, I discarded my need to go to Church so I could ask for things, and began to run to Church purely for worship and healing.

And something beautiful happened— the sentiments in the hymns and prayers and icons etched upon my heart and filled me up. In a taste of Heaven on Earth each Sunday, there really is no life in empty prayers about my selfie-marketing tactics or in the daydreams that weren’t as satiating as the present reality.

Finally, by the witness of art all around me at Church, and my senses fully engaged in worship, I had to let go of my own art to free myself…of myself.

So…a year later, I am more careful. I don’t write for the market. I don’t even really write at all. But I did try something. I reckoned with things that touched my heart in real life—or actually, things that may have not touched it and should have—and I dissected my flawed perspectives, to engage new ones. So, I wrote another story. For the truth of it. Beyond me.

I sense an invitation to continue my art again. To tell stories of messy life and truth and humanity that are not for looks or likes; stories that are seeded by Someone bigger than me.

Maybe this is just a last spurt before retiring my art for good? If so, may His will be done. Or maybe, it’s the beginning of a more full way to create. If so, may His will be done.

I love how the Orthodox spiritual teachers often say, it’s not always “either/ or”, but it can be “this and that” for those pesky temptations to try and squeeze God into a worldview.

Well, let’s just say, my art is shrouded in mystery most of the time—and now, I’ll move out of the way so He can reveal it to me—if it’s His will to do so.

Faith and Science

“Some Christians in the modern age pit the creation accounts of Genesis against modern scientific explanations for the origins of the world and cosmos. I would point out that in the ancient Greek version of Genesis found in the Septuagint, the word used for “created” is related to our word for poetry. The creation story of Genesis 1 is a creative, poetic account, not a scientific one… It is a narrative giving us spiritual insight into the creation of the universe. The early Church understood the Genesis accounts of creation as being a superior narrative compared to the various pagan myths for how the world began. Genesis doesn’t offer us a scientific explanation for the beginnings of the universe but rather offers its account which we accept in faith not as scientific fact. Even the New Testament tells us this: ‘Now faithfulness is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of unseen realities. For the ancients were commended for this. In faith we rationally perceive that the ages were composed by an utterance of God, so that the things that are seen have not been made from the things that are manifest’ (Hebrews 11:1-3).” (Fr. Ted Bobosh)

A Change of Plan

Our plan is not what I thought it would be. Just last fall, we discussed how we would remodel our home for empty-nesting. We’ve raised our family beneath a Midwest sky and launched three kids into the great wide world—though, not too far away, and always with the promise of home as we’ve grown it.

My fourth child, firmly planted in this plot, knowing herself and trusting what she knows about those around her, never expected her tether to be loosened, never saw it coming that home isn’t permanent and plans could change.

Neither had I.

Over the last few months, we’ve begun to eye the edge of that Midwest sky and look beyond it, and wrestle with the very fact that home will shift a thousand miles away. And while this is not the end of the world, our peace has been shaken, our grief has set in, and we struggle with the end of something good.

I tell my daughter, there are good things ahead—good places, good opportunities, good people.

But she is smart. She knows the truth of the world—rose-colored glasses are tucked away in childhood boxes. And she knows there are no guarantees.

Tears and fears have dissolved our hopes of roots beneath a Midwest sky.

Like her mama’s own tendency, she confessed that the bad always seems more likely than the good.

At one point, I found myself scrambling, wondering how I could protect her from the big bad world. But if there is one thing I have learned over all these years of mothering it’s that I can’t stop my kids from encountering the world. But I can equip my children to be strong. I can sidle up next to them in the midst of the encounters and love them through it. And I can eke out whatever faith I have, and try and pass it along.

This quote came up the morning after we faced the grief head on:

“I have had more than one instance in my life where my best made plans were changed. And yet, if I took the time to see it from a larger vantage point and perspective, the change in plans can actually become a blessing…God has a plan. And He has a plan for every single one of us if we trust in Him. And He will work every sorrow, every pain, every torment, and every suffering, for His glory. He revisits our past. Not only does He revisit our past, He heals our past.” -Jackie Morfesis

I’ll be honest, Faith seems little at times, but I know it’s still there—a seedling—and what my faith has changed in me, is not to disregard sorrow or suffering, but to allow it and to let it work in us to grieve well, knowing He is laying a path regardless of the plan. We won’t be lost to Him. He’ll be there. Even if those we love are nowhere to be found…at “the end of the world”.

We’ll have each other, and we’ll have Him, forever steady, no matter how our plans change.

Where I find peace

“God is everywhere present, filling all things.”

He is not a feeling I must conjure up in my mind and beg to be seen.

He is not just in the thin air as an invisible presence, or a dormant force waiting for me to nudge Him awake with my faith.

He is seen in the green, in the water, in the heartbeats of life; in the instinct of a gaggle; in the nurture of a mother and protection of a father.

In the sky’s breadth and the birdsong.

In the broken branches and the waiting limbs.

His logic and creativity and wisdom brings about everything, and in everything He is found.

I plunge deep in the heart of the woodland, and I skirt the reeds of the pond. My old flesh and secular mind want to be dazzled by God like magic because that’s what I’ve been told is supernatural.

Yet, that’s a manmade explanation. He is not on-demand, or a figmant of wishful thinking.

He is there. Here. Everywhere.

And in my heart, where turmoil is ever chipping at the Truth of His presence, He doesn’t speak with words, but His world.

And I find peace.

And He is.

The Best Years

My family will never be the same.

For fifteen years, I grew up three boys from single digits to adulthood. For fifteen years, I raised an infant to a young lady.

And for fifteen years, we really lived. Like full, boisterous, chaotic, loud, happy, sad, curious, hope-filled, life-filled, love-filled days and months and years.

Together.

On this plot of land.

Beneath this Midwest sky.

Surrounded by friends who’ve become family.

And now, we see the horizon growing closer and the path yawning far ahead and away.

As I look around this place in light of a sales sign coming soon—I am haunted by the sounds of my children—not as the teen and young adults of the present, but I hear the baby voices, their playful shouts. I hear all the life lived here. And I remember the way we were.

I’ve never had audible memories until now. Perhaps I am losing more than a home but my mind too??

I think it would be easier if they were still 8, 6, 4, and under a year. A move has its challenges with those ages, but the only bittersweetness to be felt was all my own. They were too young to know what they would miss, to think they might never see that friend again, that home.

Now, though, despite the excitement of a new adventure, grief has stricken most of us, and it keeps coming in waves.

Goodbyes are heavy on that horizon, and the anticipation builds up like a giant barricade. How will we ever pass through without pieces of us left behind?

We loved life here.

We lived life here.

I raised my family here. I grew roots in temporary soil…thinking it was permanent.

And those years just flew by.

And I just keep hearing them, almost seeing them, and I wonder at this backdrop of a life so full, how can we say goodbye for good?

A Note about March 25

I am in my 5th year of embracing Orthodoxy as an adult (I left the faith as a 19 year old…hardly an adult). One aspect of the faith that has secured my adoration for this walk, is the rhythm of the Church. We read purposeful Scripture all year long, every Sunday, every service. Sometimes, I may have not heard or sung a song before, but I know the words because they’ve been engraved on my heart in other contexts, and then my heart is full with savoring the words pouring from my lips.

Another beautiful rhythm is found in celebrating the Feast days centered on the events of Christ and His Church.

Today is the Feast of the Annunciation: the moment when Mary was approached by Gabriel and agreed to carry God within her—and from that moment on, she became Theotokos—God-bearer.

There are so many things I have learned about Mary these past 5 years, and I have untangled my misguided beliefs about the Mother of God. I’ve come to realize her blessedness has been muted by the noise of corruption, protest, and reform. Certainly the latter actions were well-intended by their initial warriors, but the chaos of the fight has tarnished her importance in many Christian circles.

On this day, when the one human of billions of humans was chosen by God to do the quiet thing of carrying a child within her, I must also remember to take care to partake in His invitation, even amid the noise. In this cacophonic, opinionated world, so much peace is lost, so much abiding with the Lord is lost. And so much attention to the goodness of God’s story, the saints, and His presence is drowned out by the voices, the shouts, the interpretations.

I love this quote below, about the quiet work of salvation as glimpsed in the Annunciation Scripture. Just as God’s voice is a quiet whisper, the quiet of salvation should be carefully considered, knowing so much can be lost to loudness, distraction, and noise:

“There is something strangely quiet about the work of salvation. I can think of few things quieter than the exchange between the Archangel Gabriel and the Virgin Mary. The entire cosmos was undergoing a radical transformation (God becoming man) while the entire interchange might have been whispered. No one noticed that anything was going on.” -Fr. Stephen Freeman

My greatest heartache for those I love most, those who have muted salvation within their hearts, is the power of noise and confusion—and the near impossibility to appreciate the quiet work they might experience, and the devastating reality of passing it by without noticing that anything was going on.

I was inspired to write this post by the latest blog by Fr. Stephen Freeman.