Barbara Baranowski
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Barbara Baranowski
If you like to encourage others, then writing and marketing devotionals might be something for you to consider. Devotionals touch lives with a message that encourage each reader to draw closer to God. As short, vivid articles that focus on a specific topic, they offer help and hope, as the reader connects to God in short, spiritual lessons. They are not fiction, but provide real life application. Tips for Writing Devotionals:
The typical format for a devotional is: title, Scripture, anecdote or reflection, conclusion, prayer or thought for the day (depending on the publication). The count is generally 200-800 words (check publication). However, the devotional format can vary according to its specific matter/use. Finding Publications for Devotionals The best place to find publications that take devotionals is in the Christian Writers Market Guide. Some publications that take freelance devotionals include: The Secret Place—100 percent freelance, The Upper Room, and Open Windows. There are also on-line devotional magazines. Sometimes your own church may have a publication for which they would like devotionals. Writing devotionals is a wonderful way to be of spiritual help to others and spread God’s Word. But to do that they have to be submitted. Why not try writing one yourself? Bobby pushed his sister down. He wanted the blue ball she was bouncing. Maggie told her mother she didn’t eat the missing cookie. She knew this was a lie. These are two examples of ways we sin.
A sin is something wrong you do, say, or sometimes just think. Bobby and Maggie didn’t plan to behave badly. It just happened. The problem is we’re all born with a sinful nature. That means we have a built-in urge to think of ourselves first. Because God wants us to love one another, sinning makes you feel sad and breaks your good connection with Him. You see, God is perfect and holy in every way and can’t allow any sin into heaven. Now this is really serious because we keep slipping up and doing those things we shouldn’t. With our sinful nature, it’s just not possible to be good all the time. But there’s Good News! God Himself has given us a Savior. His name is JESUS. And Jesus loves us so much that He went along with His Father God’s plan to save us from our sins. That’s right. Jesus died on the cross for the forgiveness of our sins - yesterday’s, today’s, and tomorrow’s too. The word forgive means to forget and remember no more. So it’s like the blood of Jesus erases our sins and buys us all tickets to heaven. Now THIS is something to celebrate! THE BIBLE TELLS ME SO John 3:16 “For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.” New International Version PRAYER Dear Jesus, my Savior, thank You for dying on the cross for me. Because of You my sins are forgiven, and I can have my very own ticket to heaven. I Love You! Amen. ACTIVITY Draw a picture of a dark cloud or write the word “sin” on a blackboard. Now erase your work. This is what forgiveness of your sins looks like. They are gone! It’s like they never happened. EVERYDAY LIVING When you pray, you can ask God to forgive your sins and know for sure that He does. They are erased and forgotten. What a wonderful feeling! Some people even pray, “For Jesus’s sake, forgive my sins.” They are remembering what Jesus did on the cross and reminding themselves that Jesus is the Savior of the world. www.facebook.com/ToddlerTheology grammycathy6@gmail.com Written by Barbara Baranowski
“I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener. He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful.” John 15:1-2 (NIV) The beautiful ivy had crawled up through the ground after winter’s cold and was overtaking our sturdy wooden fence. I needed to remove it. So, on a beautiful spring day, with gloves and clippers, I headed out to trim. The vine was solidly and deeply rooted in the dirt, but I was able to pull the runners away from the fence. I hated trimming those beautifully variegated leaves. To me, ivy gives a sense of antiquity and strength. As the day ended, I looked at the carpet of cuttings on the ground and breathe a sigh of relief that the job was nearly complete. When I finished the next morning, I noticed how dead the trimmings were after only one night. Jesus cautioned believers to live in Him for the same reason. His words resound with the same thought—apart from Him, we can do nothing for His kingdom and do not become what He has created us to be. If we are like sturdy branches growing in Him, the Vine of Life, we will understand that the pruning, while sometimes painful, is necessary for us to grow in love, trust, and service for God, leaving us to be an ever-bearing, vibrant part of His kingdom. However, as the leaves of the ivy vine die apart from its strong source of strength, we too will quickly die spiritually if we remove ourselves from prayer, Bible study, and fellowship with believers and in our case, too, other writers. As springtime brings new growth and the earth becomes rejuvenated with beauty, let’s take stock of our spiritual and writing life. Are we a dying vine or a vibrant part of the Lord’s vineyard? Dikkon Eberhart
www.dikkoneberhart.com To a non-writer, it might seem that writing a memoir is easy. You know what happened—just tell the truth. Here’s a passage from a good writer that is on point. The passage is on page thirty of the novel Lila by Marilynne Robinson. The protagonist of the novel is a young woman who scarcely ever talks, whom the reader does not yet know well. She is sitting, virtually silent, with an elderly minister in his kitchen, drinking coffee. He has just told her an event about angels. She said, “I liked that story.” He looked away from her and laughed. “It is a story, isn’t it? I’ve never really thought of it that way. And I suppose the next time I tell it, it will be a better story. Maybe a little less true. I might not tell it again. I hope I won’t. You’re right not to talk. It’s a sort of higher honesty, I think. Once you start talking, there’s no telling what you’ll say. Read that last sentence again—Once you start talking, there’s no telling what you’ll say. Most people don’t suffer under the burden of being writers. Truth in writing is more complicated than most people understand. Once we writers start talking—writing—there’s no telling what we’ll say. What we writers say is for the good of the story we are telling. The good of the story we are telling becomes our motivation, which is paramount. Truth notwithstanding. If the need of the story is for its protagonist to step off the porch and to trip over the cat, then that is what the protagonist does—even though the truth of the incident was that it was the bottom step of the inside staircase, and it was the dog. Lila is a novel. Fiction is one thing; memoir is another. I write memoir. It’s harder. For one thing, the people you write about in memoir are still alive, or they may be, and they have a right to privacy—which is true even if they’re dead. For another, you yourself have a right to privacy, even when you seem deliberately to have opened yourself up to scrutiny. But the main difficulty about your memoir is that your memoir is not about you. Your memoir uses you to support its real subject. Its real subject is your theme for writing. What are you writing about? Not you. Frankly, no one is much interested in you except a few friends and relations. It’s your theme that is of general interest—you hope. Let’s say your memoir’s theme is how pet ownership has opened up your life to greater awareness of God. In that case, it really doesn’t matter if the accident was prompted by the porch and the cat or by the stairs and the dog. Either is relevant to the theme. However, you know that it was the stairs and the dog, but you’re going to use the porch and the cat. That’s the truth trouble, right there. Why do you use the porch and the cat? You write that it was the porch and the cat because, later in your memoir, at the climax of your theme—when the awareness of God comes vividly upon you—that event actually did happen on the porch. You decide you’ll use the porch and the cat for the accident so that your memoir, as a whole—rising as it does toward the God revelation—can occur on the porch, where it really did occur. That’s the best way for the revelation scene to be literarily cohesive with the accident event. Whew! It’s not easy. How do you balance? Theme? Truth? Or do you serve each of these needs at the same time by using techniques of fiction, without stepping across the line into fiction? Readers of your book want to be excited by your memoir, not because it is about you, but—because of the gift you have made to them of your theme—it is about them. Yes, you are providing detail about your life and your events, but their attraction to your memoir is that you have allowed them to think about themselves in new ways. Their lives and their events have been affirmed, or tested, or questioned, or balanced by what you have said about yours. They are drawn into your memoir by this. But they stay inside your book because of what you have revealed to them about them. Each draft of your story perfects your story, while each draft is a little less true. That’s because once you start to write your story, there’s no telling what you’ll say. Written by Dikkon Eberhart
www.dikkoneberhart.com Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah Don’t skim your eye down the words. Go back and say the words. Say them with measured solemnity, four syllables to each word. Sixteen syllables all together. You are praising the Lord. This is the Gloria in excelsis Deo that you are pronouncing. It was late morning on the eve of Christmas Eve. I called my wife at the church. Since she and I came to Christ six years before, she had been our pastor’s secretary. I was checking in, concerned about errands I needed to finish while I was out on the road. We spoke briefly about the errands. Then I asked her when she planned to come home from the church. Uncharacteristically, she did not know. Usually, she knows. Usually, she knows because she knows what tasks she must finish. Usually, she responds with a time—an hour, two hours. But this time, she was vague. It was odd of her—my wife is not a vague person, about time or about anything else. “I don’t know,” is what she said, and she said it with a puzzled intonation, as though she wondered why she did not know and yet she said it anyway. I was puzzled, too, when I hung up. I thought perhaps I should call her back, to ask if she were all right. I thought perhaps I should question her tone of puzzlement, which suggested she did not feel in charge of her time that afternoon. But I did not call her back. I had errands to do. Here’s what I learned later. After I hung up, an hour or two passed at the church. My wife was alone. She finished tasks. There is always a task to finish on a secretary’s desk. But, puzzlingly, she did not formulate a plan for the finishing of her tasks and for her getting home. Then the church’s door opened and a man entered whom my wife had never seen. The man introduced himself and asked if the pastor were in. The pastor was not in. The man seemed puzzled by the circumstance that the pastor was not in at the church. “But God told me I must come to see him now.” “Well, would you like me to make an appointment for you, for later?” “But God told me I must come to see him now.” After all—this is how my wife reported the conversation to me—after all, the man was puzzled himself. He had done what God had told him to do. Now, it was the pastor’s turn. The pastor had left the church not long before, with several plans in his mind. He had not been certain which of the plans he would undertake. He would let my wife know which plan he would undertake, he said, when he knew himself. My wife dialed the phone. The pastor answered. “There’s a man here,” she said, and she gave his name. “He says he needs to see you.” “Oh.” “I wasn’t certain about your plan.” “Well, I haven’t selected the plan yet. I don’t know why. Right now, I’m eating lunch.” The pastor thought for a moment. “Can he wait ten minutes?” My wife looked at the man. “Can you wait ten minutes?” “Yes.” She turned back to the phone. “He can wait.” “See you in ten.” In ten minutes, the pastor arrived at the church. He and the man went into his office. Two hours later, the man accepted Jesus Christ as his Lord, and his name was written in Glory. Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah Late that same night, on the eve of Christmas Eve, my wife and I relaxed on our couch. The house was aromatic with baking gift breads. The Christmas tree was lit with white bulbs, wax candles burned among our mantel display of spruce boughs and red balls, and twinkling candles were alight in our windows so that, as my mother told me when I was a child, if the Christ Child should need a place to lie down, He would know by our candles that He would be welcome here. My wife had explained to me the odd events of that afternoon—the man puzzled why the pastor should not be at his office when God had indicated that he would be, my wife puzzled about her inability to manage a time to return to our house so that she was available just at the right moment to make that telephone call to our pastor, our pastor puzzled that he had not selected among his plans for the afternoon so that he was, at the necessary time for the man, just eating lunch. My wife lay back on the couch and put her feet in my lap. In silence, I stroked her feet. The wine was red in my glass, and white in my wife’s. We listened to Susan Boyle sing Hallelujah. The words of poet and songwriter Leonard Cohen filled the room. We are busy people, she and I, with several jobs between us—retirees who still work hard, and I had a new book coming out, a memoir recounting my life as the son of a poet father—a father whose poetry molded my relationship with our Father. Relaxing on our couch, weary after days and days of heavy work for both of us, nearing the completion of our Advent anticipation of a miracle—humbly trying to experience our anticipation with patience—the beauty of the season and of the Christ lights overthrew me. I wept. My wife looked her question, but gently: this was her emotional husband. “It’s beautiful,” I said. I wept for Cohen’s spare, elegiac poetry. I wept for Boyle’s easy voice. I wept for the still, calm beauty of our decorated home. I wept for giving gift bread to our friends, bread which my wife had created. But mostly I wept that, on the eve of Christmas Eve, the Lord Himself had used my wife and our pastor for His own purpose, which was to bring another soul to salvation—that godly using, which had puzzled each of them, as their planning of their day was set aside. Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah. Written by Dikkon Eberhart
www.dikkoneberhart.com Dad was prominent as a poet. When I was young, I longed not to be a poet. I’d be anything—a quarterback, an FBI agent, a ship captain. But in my soul, I knew I would be a chip off Dad’s block. Alas, I was a word-smith, too. So I watched Dad, to learn how. One Read, read, read. Read any style, content, genre, author, date—it doesn’t matter. “We pour our souls into these words, Dikkon. You need to learn to identify writing that’s worth that effort and writing that’s not.” Once, after Dad breezed through an erotic novel I showed him, drily he responded, “Chaucer did it better.” Two Start. “I can’t write it,” I moaned, regarding my short story assignment in high school. “It’s too hard!” Dad caught Mom’s urging eye, put down his pipe, and asked me, “What’s your story about?” “When they’re choosing up teams, the boy wants to be picked first but maybe he won’t be.” “And?” “I don’t know! Maybe he isn’t picked first, but maybe he hits the home run. It’s due tomorrow!” “Try making the story about his thoughts.” “About his thoughts?” “Yes. Try starting with the word ‘maybe.’” Dad grinned. “Maybe the story is about maybe.” So I wrote the story and submitted it on time. Its first sentence was “Maybe I’ll be picked first but maybe not.” Three Bring the reader in. “Do you like it?” Dad asked. “It’s assigned.” “Not what I asked.” “Then, no. It’s boring.” “Do you think maybe the author’s just writing for himself and maybe for his closest friends?” I hadn’t thought of that as a possibility. The author was a major name in modernist English fiction—the focus of my college class. Dad pressed on, “Do you think it’s important that you be drawn in?” “Who? Me?” “You’re his reader, aren’t you?” I laughed. “I wouldn’t be his reader, not if I could help it.” “So…that’s my point. Yes, the reader must come to the writer, but the reader only will come to the writer if he’s drawn in, not forced in.” “That’s not happening here.” “So when you’re a writer….” I nodded. “Bring ‘em in.” “Atta boy.” Four Don’t go to sleep until you know what happens next. “No,” Dad said. “I don’t believe in writer’s block.” “It’s my first novel, Dad. I can’t get past the point where I am. You’re a poet, not a novelist. How could you know?” “What’s the last scene you wrote?” I told him. “Go back and write it again.” “What’s wrong with it?” “Doesn’t matter. Probably nothing. But write it again—create it again. Your juices will begin to flow again, and you’ll speed on.” Turns out he was right—I sped on. Five Don’t let it fester. I called Dad. Two days before, I had finished my second novel, doing its last sixty pages in an eighteen-hour burst of ecstatic—almost holy—writing. “It’s done, Dad.” “Congratulations!” “I’m exhausted.” “Of course. Get a rest.” “Tell Mom.” “Of course. So…what’s next?” “I read it over. I think it’s good. Gotta do some tweaks.” “Do that. But then—get it off your desk.” “What do you mean?” “Don’t let it fester. Get it out into the world. If you tweak it too much, you could kill it. Now let an editor tell you what to do. ” HERE’S A BONUS! A Sixth Thing I Learned Keep trying. Sitting in our garden, Robert Frost turned to me and remarked, “Dikkon, the work of the poet is to write at least one single poem that they can’t get rid of. They’ll try. But don’t let ‘em.” © – Dikkon Eberhart, 2016 Written by Donna Willard
Journaling is writing about the journey we call life. Often journaling has meant so much to me because I can release the feelings inside my heart and onto an external piece of paper. It has helped me deal with feelings of depression and anxiety, as well as express joy. Journaling is a release for my soul and has helped me to captivate my thoughts and emotions. It has also been a springboard for many pieces that I have written, including editorials and letters to friends. In addition, journaling is a great way to communicate with God through a prayer, and then later record answers to prayer. Requirements for journaling include paper, pencil, and the thoughts and feelings the Lord places in your heart. There are many beautiful journals for purchase, but one can, if preferred, just use a piece of blank paper. Some journals have scripture or ideas that act as a springboard for thoughts. The writer does not have to edit when journaling. That just interrupts the flow of thoughts. Many writers start their writing pieces in a journal. One just needs to express thoughts or prayers for God to begin. It is truly the easiest form of writing for God. King David wrote his thoughts in journal form, as found in Psalms 22, “My God, my God, why have you abandoned me? Why are you so far away when I groan for help?”(NLTB) David’s words start out with deep sadness and end with the joy of future generations hearing about the wonders of the Lord. We all are on a journey in life. Writing in journal form is a way to communicate ideas from our abstract minds to concrete paper. Whether we write just for ourselves to read or to share so others may learn, journaling empties our soul to paper. Written by Rev. John Carroll
One Sunday morning, I read in my local church bulletin of the Roanoke Valley Christian Writers’ Group. There was an open invitation to attend the monthly meeting. I had not heard of the group, although it had been going for about a year. I put the date on my calendar, the third Thursday of the month at 6:30 PM. From the first meeting, I could see that this group was for me, exactly what I needed. What did I find there? Five things that I don’t think a Christian writer will find anywhere else. As an aspiring writer, I need all of these desperately.
Our director, Barbara Baranowski, is constantly on the lookout for material that will be helpful to some or all of us. Where else can you find that besides the RVCW?
There are probably few who can be successful without these five benefits I have found in the Roanoke Valley Christian Writers’ Group. I’m sure I can’t. Come as a guest and see if it doesn’t make a very positive difference in your writing life. If you agree, we’ll tell you how easy it is to become a member. You can find a link to my book, Cover to Cover: Through the Bible in 365 Days, at (http://tinyurl.com/pglf56d ).  Written by April Dawn White of Red Chair Moments Did King David have a red chair? This off-the-wall thought invades my mind as I ponder God’s Word. Each morning I drag my little red chair across from God’s throne. Knees touching with the Almighty, I sit and wait for God to breathe a living word into my day. Today, I read the historical account of Nathan a prophet who reported to King David the words of his revelation of David’s future. First Chronicles 17:16-27 is David’s prayer in response to such a significant blessing: Then King David went in and sat before the Lord, and he said: “Who am I, Lord God, and what is my family, that you have brought me this far? Lord, let the promise you have made concerning your servant and his house be established forever. Do as you promised, so that it will be established and that your name will be great forever.” (1 Chronicles 17:16, 23-24) Do as you promised. Comprised of four words and five syllables, “Do as you promised,” packs a power punch prayer. Rising from my red chair, I pad into the kitchen, deciding this requires more coffee. I pour another cup of liquid mercy pondering the words “Do as you promised.” Tugging the handle of the junk drawer, I give it a forceful yank. Why does this drawer always stick? Shuffling through box tops and pencils needing sharpening I find a marker and a sticky pad. I write, “Do as you promised” and stick it to the kitchen cabinet. Whether washing my hands, reaching for a glass, or pouring coffee, this four-word prayer reminds me, God’s Word is full of promises to His children. The Bible contains over 8,000 promises. I am clinging to this promise penned by passionate Peter: “And the God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you and make you strong, firm and steadfast.” (1 Peter 5:10, NIV) After I have suffered a little while, Christ Himself will restore me. Lord do as you promised. “Not one of all the Lord’s good promises to Israel failed; every one was fulfilled.” (Joshua 21:45) God fulfilled every promise made, every-single-one. It is well with my soul, because God will answer the prayer, “Do as you promised.”  |
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