by Tracy Bowen

My co-author is adorable in a hat. I envy her that. I am also jealous of her amazing knowledge of the rules of English grammar.  But let’s not start down that road or I will be here all day. She is gifted in a lot of areas that I’m not, and if I start listing them I may get depressed. Which would be a shame, because right now I’m in a pretty good mood.

Why, you may ask, am I in such high spirits? Well, for the past several years, right about this time, I was overwhelmed with the amount of work I needed to get turned in by a weekly Monday deadline for my college courses.

This week I get to sit down at my computer and write a blog while avoiding my WIP, because I am feeling a just a tiny bit stuck with a certain thread in my story. There is not a college essay or textbook in sight.

So this week I’m going to slap a square hat on my head and march down an aisle in front of hundreds of people. I will look foolish, but don’t let my appearance deceive you. I am very smart. I will be holding a piece of paper in my hands that says so.

Then it comes like a sucker punch to the gut, and you realize that all of the preparation in the world could not be adequate enough to fend off the hurt that you feel.

Rejection comes in several forms. Sometimes it comes with a list of things that are wrong with your story. Sometimes it comes with a list of things that you can do to improve your story. Sometimes it comes with no explanation at all, and you are left alone to scratch your head and wonder what you did wrong.

What comes next tells the true tale of who you really are. It is the story behind the story.

Do you dismiss the criticism and vent to all of your friends about how some stupid person had the nerve to find fault with your work? Do you ignore the advice and eat seven bowls of chocolate ice cream all the while mumbling that someone didn’t recognize genius when they saw it? Do you throw your hands up in the air in defeat while pitching your manuscript in the trash? Do you walk away and never attempt to tell a story again?

Or do you work through the hurt and then take a long, hard look at your manuscript with honest eyes? Are you willing to do anything and everything within your power to become a better writer? Are you teachable?

Your reaction to rejection reflects the truth about you.

Having recently faced a publisher’s rejection I have been pondering this concept, and I have come to the conclusion that it is applicable to more than just the writing aspect of my life. You see, at the exact same time that I have been facing rejection as a writer I have also been facing rejection in some relationships.

The reality is that a life fully lived is going to require some vulnerability on my part. I am going to put myself out there…and I am going to be judged.

Inevitably, rejection will be a part of the process at times, and there is nothing that can be done to adequately prepare for pain that is soul deep. Sometimes it will come with a long list of my faults. Sometimes it will come with some advice on how I can improve. And sometimes it will come with no explanation at all.

What am I going to do with this experience? Will I retreat in fear? Will I lash out in anger?

Or will I work through the hurt and take a long, hard look at myself with honest eyes? Can I learn something from this process that will make me a better human being? Am I teachable?

As a person, and as a writer, I wish that I could say that my first reaction to rejection has always been mature and well thought out. However, if I am going to speak honestly I have to say that I have felt hurt and angry and afraid.

But I have felt the unwavering gaze of God on me in the swirl of my emotions. He is my one true thing. The One who sees all of my faults and does not walk away. The One who loves me in spite of me.



~ Tracy Bowen

What can I say? There is a small part of me that loved the romance of it all. I loved the dress. I loved the pomp surrounding the ceremony that was so rich with tradition. I loved listening to the prayers and the vows because, let’s all be honest, everything sounds better in a British accent. I loved listening to the pure, authentic voices in the choir. I loved laughing at some of those silly hats.

It’s a love story. And, at the end of the day, the woman in me responds to that.

While I found the whole thing fascinating, there are times when I cringe at the thought of the royal wedding, because I know all of the gals are getting caught up in the idea of their own “prince” swooping in to rescue them from the pain and problems of their past and whisking them away to their very own well-planned out version of happily ever after. Having been married for almost eighteen years, let me just go on record as saying this scenario is not anywhere close to reality. Before you fall out of your computer chair and then climb back in it to send Matt mass emails full of sympathy because he has the sad misfortune to have me as his wife…let me explain.

I came into this whole marriage experience with a lot of expectations. Marriage was going to be the great band-aid that made me all better. I wanted happiness. I wanted him to fix me…and yet at the same time I held myself back from him because my entire past experience had led me to believe that men will always hurt you. Talk about a lose-lose situation. Poor Matt. He never stood a chance with me.

Matt is just about as close as a man can get to being the perfect husband. He gets me. He is not bothered by the fact that I am not into cuddling and sharing feelings--I need space--yet he knows I am romantic enough to appreciate flowers and love notes from him. He has incredible talent in the kitchen, and has made me some mouth-watering meals. His work ethic is off of the charts. He is very skilled, and is good at literally every single thing that he attempts. I have yet to see him take on a job that he does not complete well.

He surprises me with things that really matter to me…like a freshly painted office. He supports me in every single thing that I do. He is an awesome, hands-on dad. He always makes an effort to let me know how beautiful he thinks I am, and there is not a doubt in my mind that, four kids later, he still finds me attractive. And--this one is very important--he makes me laugh.


It’s a love story.

~ Tracy

I love this time of year. The weather is amazing, and the flowers appear to be more vibrant. Easter, and everything that it represents, is one of my favorite holidays. It just seems as if you can feel hope lingering in the air offering new beginnings.

As of two years ago I have added a new reason to find spring so special. On April 16, 2009, our family experienced a miracle.

That evening we decided to take our kids to a park close by our home. Our eleven-year-old, Caleb, decided he wanted to ride his bike. We were going to be right behind him in our van with so we agreed to let him.

To get to our destination we had to cross a two lane road. Caleb was in front of us so he got there first. I saw a car coming, and assumed that Caleb saw it as well. (If I had a dollar for every time I have told my children to look both ways I would be writing this little story from my vacation home in Europe.)

And then I saw his foot move on the bike pedal.

What happened next is without a doubt the most bizarre moment of my life. I knew exactly what was going to happen, and I also knew that I could do absolutely nothing to stop it. My husband realized as well, and immediately began screaming, “No, no, no,” over and over and over again. It was a blood-curdling sound like nothing I have ever heard from him before or since.

Before our very eyes, the car struck Caleb full on.

His body flew up over the hood of the car and disappeared. The vehicle came to an almost immediate stop. I frantically scanned for Caleb, but could see nothing. My husband was the first to jump out of our van and he began running towards the accident, still screaming that one word desperately. I sat stunned. My brain simply could not process what had just happened.

I finally gathered my wits and yelled at our other children to not move a muscle, then I took off running as well. I was not hysterical. It felt like I was having an out of body experience…as if I was looking down at this horrible event as it happened to someone else. I rounded the back of the car that had hit him, and saw that Caleb was in the grass on the opposite side of the road. He was trying to push himself up on one elbow.

My first thought was, “He’s moving! He’s alive!”

My second thought was, “He should not be moving! We don’t know what is going on inside of his body!”

I screamed at him, “Don’t move! Please, don’t move!”

Though I have no memory of grabbing it, I looked down and saw that my cell phone was in my hands. Immediately, I called 911. It rang, and rang, and rang some more. I was frantically talking into the mouthpiece, “Pick up! Pick up!”

Finally, a lady answered. When I told her what had happened she asked for our location. I relayed what road we were on and a few landmark buildings, but she kept saying she needed an actual physical address. To this day I have no clue what she wanted me to say. There is no physical address for car/bike accidents that occur in the middle of the road. I don’t think the third pothole on the right side of the road qualifies.

Bystanders were already gathering, and since it was our neighborhood we knew most of them. One man sensed my frustration at the emergency operator and took the phone from my hands.

I then dropped to my knees beside my son. His face looked horrible. One cheek was just raw, oozing flesh and his arm looked bruised and swollen. And that was what I could see. God only knew what was hidden beneath his clothing.

I can tell you that fear is more than an emotion. It envelopes your body and takes over all of your senses. It smells like burnt rubber and freshly plowed dirt. It has the salty taste of tears, and crawls down your spine like clammy sweat. It looks like flashing lights. And it sounds like your child crying over and over again, “I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.”

Before I knew it we were surrounded by a barrage of rescue workers. The scene was completely chaotic. Looking up from the ground, I saw the man who hit Caleb standing by his car with a look of utter shock on his face. My heart went out to him. He had not been speeding, and there was nothing he could have done to avoid what happened. I remember thinking, “Oh, that poor man. He thinks he may have killed my son.”

I tried to get his attention and told him, “This is not your fault. He pulled out in front of you. There is nothing you could have done.”

The medics were working with Caleb, and very quickly told me that because of contusions to his abdominal area that he would have to be life-flighted to a nearby hospital because of the possibility of internal injuries.

My mind just went numb.

Completely heartbroken, I crouched on the side of the road, my face in the dirt beside Caleb as they strapped him to a gurney. I just kept repeating, “Jesus. Jesus. Jesus.”

It was all that I could think to say. I knew He was our only hope.

Caleb started going into shock as they loaded him in the ambulance that would take him to meet the trauma hawk that had landed in a field nearby. His body was shaking uncontrollably. They would not allow me to get in the chopper with him.

And so there I stood, watching as my son was taken away. There is not a more helpless feeling on planet earth.

Some friends drove me to the hospital. They prayed out loud as we sped down the road, but I still could not formulate a plea of my own. My mind just kept repeating that one word. Jesus. It felt like the longest ride of my life. I had no idea what news might be awaiting me when I arrived.

Our evening of horror turned into a night of miracles when, after cat scans and x-rays, it was discovered that Caleb had no broken bones and no internal injuries. He was one sore, bruised, road rash covered little boy, but he was alive.

We found out later that night the true extent of our miracle when my husband talked to the man who hit Caleb. He told us that every evening he drives a large service truck home from work.

But not that night.

On that night he was driving a little Honda Civic.

This past Easter Sunday morning I listened as “Your Great Name” was sung in church. I love that song. I suppose it is because the accident is so very real in my mind at this time of year that the words took on such special significance.

“Sick are healed, and the dead are raised, at the sound of Your great name.”

As I walked through this memory and recalled how His name was the only thing my traumatized mind could think to say, I felt the full impact of verse fourteen in Hebrews chapter four.

“Therefore, since we have a great high priest who has gone through the heavens, Jesus the Son of God.”

In the grief-stricken utterance of His name, He heard the cry of my heart.

The suffering and death that He so willingly endured allowed Him to take on the role of the Great High Priest. In the glory of His resurrection He has become the intercessor.

Every single moment in our lives when we feel the impact of the painful, sinful world in which we live, He comes running to our side. He crouches in the dirt and despair that surrounds us as our minds scream in desperation, “I don’t want this! I can’t take this!” His heart breaks when our hearts breaks.

And there as we struggle to survive our darkest moment, He stands before the Father on our behalf. His wounds strongly plead for us.

Every hope that we have is fulfilled in that one precious name.

Jesus.

“Jesus, worthy is the Lamb, that was slain for us, Son of God and man, You are high and lifted up and all the world will praise Your great name.”

~ Tracy

I was raised in an atmosphere that put a lot of emphasis on appearance, but there was all manner of evil hiding beneath the dignified, saintly facade. I learned early on that the ugly stuff is supposed to be hidden, and I became a hard core people pleaser. The result? Someone who internalized a lot of pain and anger. It ate away at me like an insidious cancer, leaving me panicked. So then I ended up doing a lot of things that gave me the illusion of control...like keeping a perfect house. I fell into the clutches of an enslaving lie: If the outside looks good, that makes up for the fact that the core is appallingly rotten. Enter Facade Tracy--the Queen of Cover-Up. And no, I am not referring to make-up.

By the grace of God I met someone who helped bring the pain and anger from my past into His light. For the first time in my life I was real before Him. Not that He hadn't known me before, but I have come to learn that the acknowledgement of who we are is not for His benefit--it's for ours. The discovery of His love for me--just as I was--and of His trustworthy character, changed my life.

This area of authenticity is a place God is continually working on. You would think I would just learn my lesson and be done with it, but apparently I am hard-headed. Who knew? Being honest about my past before Him was wonderful and freeing, but the clutches of the facade are long-reaching, and to this very day, its tentacles are grasping at my heels.

It is hard to be real with myself. Honestly, there are some things about me that just ain't pretty. It would be easier to pretend they don't exist and go bleach something. It is hard to be real with people. Let's face it...people can be very judgmental. We all love a good fingerpointing session. It distracts us from our own faults.

I am sickened when I realize just how much time and energy I have put into efforts that make me feel in control of my life, and worrying about what others think of me. God has been killing Facade Tracy. She is dying a slow, painful death. He is rooting out the motives behind my every action. It has been downright painful.

But I have met an interesting gal: Authentic Tracy.

Facade Tracy wants everything to be perfect at all times because that makes her feel in control. Facade Tracy does not care if her family cannot be comfortable in their own home because they fear messing up her hard work.

Authentic Tracy also likes clean...but she knows that family is more important than things. Authentic Tracy knows that she can't be a good wife, raise cherished children, go to school full-time, and write books while living in a spotless house. Perfect simply isn't on my agenda--I don't have time for it. Something has to give.

That something has turned into a dust bunny behind my fridge that is so large I am thinking about buying it a collar and giving it a name. It can be our new family pet.  

There is not an area of my life that has not come under His scrutiny. Why do I wear the things I wear? Why do I go the places I go? Why do I act and react the way that I do?
I don't want to make people happy with me. I want God to be happy with me.
I don't want to be in control. I want God to be in control.
I don't want a fake, plastic life that only looks good from the outside.
I want to be real. 

I had just sat down to write a devotional for this blog, and the text came with the news. My friend has been sitting at the bedside of her father. The vigil is almost over.

He is dying.

Honestly, at first I just sat staring at the computer feeling completely helpless. Her family situation has always been complex, but no matter what the complications, at this moment in time she is simply a daughter watching her father slip away. I am a fixer. I want to do something to make it better.

But sometimes there is no better. Not here. Not on this side of eternity.

My eyes moved from the blinking icon on an empty screen to a piece of paper taped to the wall of my office.

“The moment we get tired waiting, God’s Spirit is right alongside us helping us along. He does our praying in and for us, making prayers out of our wordless sighs and aching groans. He knows us better than we know ourselves, and keeps us present before God. That is why we can be sure that every detail in our lives of love for God is worked into something good.” Romans 8:26-30 The Message.

I could not help but think of the role of the great high priest as outlined in the Old Testament. He was a human representative who stood before Almighty God in a holy place that was set apart specifically for the meeting of humanity and the Divine. According to directions from God Himself, a beautiful veil of ornate workmanship set apart that sacred space called the Holy of Holies from the rest of the tabernacle. No one dared enter upon the threat of death, except the great high priest. Once a year he followed the cleansing rituals, adorned the priestly vestments, and with fear and trembling would enter into the very presence of God. His purpose was to sprinkle the blood of a spotless lamb on the mercy seat. He was the intercessor. He reached out to God on behalf of himself, and God’s people.

And then my thoughts moved to the cross. In my mind’s eye I could see Jesus as He took upon Himself the weight of the world.

The Son did not don priestly vestments. Instead He was viscously stripped of His clothing. He did not follow the cleansing ritual. His body was covered with saliva from their contempt, sweat from His arduous journey to Golgotha carrying a cruel cross, and blood from the agonizing stripes placed upon His back.

It was brutal.

It was beautiful.

For in that moment of agony when He cried out, “It is finished”, that veil was torn and Jesus obtained the position of the Great High Priest.

No longer was a weak and frail human being responsible for bridging the great divide between divinity and humanity bearing the insufficient blood of lambs. The perfect spotless Lamb had been sacrificed.

I may be helpless, but He is not. The Son now stands before the Father, and is pleading on behalf of my friend.

And for me...for you.

"Making prayers out of our wordless sighs and aching groans."

He is the intercessor.

So he got up and went to his father. But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him.
Luke 15:20

I love the story of the prodigal son. It is one of my favorite passages in the Bible. Since that is the case, I have read this portion of Luke 15 on numerous occasions. The Word is alive and powerful, and we never stop gleaning truths from the riches of its pages. This was proven to me yet again when my husband pointed out an aspect of this story that I had never seen before. This new perspective brought this passage alive in a new way that I found extremely meaningful.

When we read about the prodigal we often focus on the foolish choices that led him to the pig pen, or perhaps the angry older brother. Our hearts are moved we visualize the father catching his first glimpse of his son from afar. We are intrigued with what happened...the details of how the story plays out. But maybe we should, for just a brief moment, place some emphasis on what didn't happen.

The truth about humanity is that we usually want people to explain themselves. We demand to hear the reasons why someone has wronged us. We want to know what thought process went into foolish choices.

In this passage the father saw his son coming, and immediately began to run to him. He did not stop to ask questions before he threw his arms around him, and kissed him.

He demanded no explanation. He just loved him. Period.

Sometimes we need to see this. The truth about God. About His character.

I don't know what kind of week you have had. I don't know what mistakes or choices you may have made. If you are anything like me (please, tell me you are!!) then there are times when it feels like you get it wrong more than you get it right.

Run to Him. He is running to you.

He loves me. He loves you. He loves.

Period.

~Tracy Bowen

What is your favorite chocolate indulgence?

This is a hard choice. There are just so many goodies out there! I am going to have to go with my friend Jan Hobbs' chocolate cake. The recipe includes chocolate and coffee. It is delicious! I feel the need to apologize to everyone that it is not available world-wide for their enjoyment. :)

Define chick-lit in your own words.

This is simple. I can do it in one word. Fun! :)

What was the most chick-lit moment in your life?

This is an impossible question to answer. There is no way that I can choose just one. I am a disaster magnent, and I married a man that can find humor in the most dire of circumstances :) I live in a chick-lit novel!

Do you have any writing quirks?

When I get a chance to break away from the chaos that is my life and write I am extremly focused. This is one area where the only quirkiness that can be found is in the characters on the page. If you ask Jenness about this I am sure that she would tell you differently. :)

What is your favorite CBA lit (chick or otherwise) novel?

Okay, these questions are hard. I am getting a headache from all of these choices! I have a strong love affair with books in general. It is difficult to choose favorites. I am going to have to agree with Jenness about Ray Blackston's book Flabbergasted. It is laugh out loud funny.

Where would you go on your dream writing "research" trip, and would you take anyone with you? Who?

I would go to Monaco, and I would take my hubby. Though I must confess that with him along I don't know how much research I would get done...unless my next novel includes lots of romance. :)

If you could live in a novel, which would you choose?

I do live in a novel! :) My life is Bliss. South Florida really is a little slice of heaven right here on earth.

If you were not pursuing writing, what dream career would you be chasing?

I am taking this question literally. I know that this will never, ever happen. It really is a dream in every sense of the word, but I have always secretly (do not laugh!) wanted to own a football team. I love this sport! The skill, detail, and sheer physical demands all come together to create the most magnificant game in the world.

Finally, share two pieces of advice--one writing related and one not.

1. I still have so much to learn that I feel a little awkward handing out advive, but here are my two cents. To become a good writer you have to be vulnerable. You cannot pretend that you know everything. You must be willing to learn from others. You have to put your hard work out there, and accept critiques. It might not always feel like it, but this is a gift. The things that other writers can bring to your craft cannot be detailed in this small space. In short...surround yourself with people who share your passion for words, and learn everything that you can.

2. Be real. Lay the facade aside and be real. We all have issues. There is nothing to be gained by pretending otherwise. However, by being transparent there is much that we can learn from each other. And most importantly from God.

We just had our book launch Wednesday night. Fun! :) We pulled off a beach party feel, and everything went smoothly. Success!

Ahhh. Bliss.

I am from a book-loving family. We were passionate about our reading! So much so that we often brought our books with us to the table. On any given night you could find me stuffing my face with the best fried chicken and gravy that exists on this planet (thanks mom!) and exploring under the sea with Captain Nemo. Or solving a mystery with Nancy Drew.

At some point I began to secretly nurture the thought that I would love to try to write a book. And then life happened. With marriage and babies came a huge work load, and my dream got lost underneath a pile of laundry. Trust me, there is nothing like a pile of sweaty socks to kill your creativity.

Enter Jenness.

After finding out that she was an author, I could not help myself--I blurted out my long-held private dream to someday write a book. One day she casually mentioned that we should try to write a novel together. She even had a story idea in mind. I have to confess, I was thrilled...and a little scared. Could I really do this? I have responsibilities! For some strange reason my laundry pile has not shrunk over the years. It has, in fact, grown to monstrous proportions.

And that is when I found out that this was more than just a dream. It was a calling. Thankfully, when God asks us to do something, He equips us to fulfill the task. He used Jenness to push me out of my comfort zone, and I could not be more happy with the results.