The din of 600 high-pitched voices, nearly all women, filled the two-story foyer as I wove my way through the crowd to the closed doors of the ballroom. At dawn, I woke to find the mountain view from the porch of the Cabin In The Clouds shrouded in grey wisps. The past seven days I heard just the call of birds by day and evenings of quiet conversations from nearby tables at restaurants I sampled. The sudden change of venue at the American Christian Fiction Writers conference was more than an auditory overload. My deadened nerves had a respite from all forms of stress as I trekked and biked the Black Mountains and leisurely composed my adventures in my last episode, “Jeremiah’s Journey – 16: Mile High.”
I opened the ballroom door and felt a tomb of silence as the door closed behind me. Ted Dekker, a bestselling author, and the keynote speaker was performing a sound check. I ventured to the stage to find a prime view from the front tables. Setting my book bag in a chair, I turned and scanned the immense ballroom. Wow. This is no small conference. I was a newbie, my first quest into the writer’s community. For six years, I wrote in self-imposed isolation until earlier this year when I met C.S. Marks, author of the ELFHUNTER Trilogy. She writes fantasy fiction and my genre—contemporary, literary, transformational fiction—has nothing in common, but her sage advice set my course to become published. My stories are not fantasy. I write about real people in real drama struggling with real issues who transform as a result of consequential events, where the bad girl or guy is not eliminated, rather they receive Christ as Savior.
My eyes met a smile from a guy seated alone at a table mid-way back. I approached him, as he seemed to be expecting me.
“The luncheon starts in five minutes,” I said. “Why is everyone in the foyer? Oh, they’re women, and they like to talk. Such a din out there. And why are we in here? Practical men getting the best seats. Hey, are we the only guys at this conference? I think I’ve found my place. Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all. My first conference, too. Hi. Tim Brown from Missoula.” We shook hands, and I quickly retrieved my book bag.
“Missoula. Sounds familiar. Does it have a law school?”
“Why, yes,” Tim offered with a look of question.
“That’s it. Buddy of mine went to college there. I remember, now. He phoned me. I acted out the scene, hand mimicking a phone like Ernestine, the snarky, snorting telephone operator who Lily Tomlin created—“Hey, I’m holed up here in Missoula. Snowstorm hit last night. Sorry, can't make it to your wedding.”
“That was 40 years ago,” I remarked. “Wow. Time marches on. Just turned a new decade last week at Black Mountain . . .”
I continued my adventure story only to be interrupted by the chattering throng entering the ballroom en masse.
“There goes our quiet time. So, what do you write, Tim?”
“Medical thrillers. My first book was printed just before I left.” He handed me his card.
“Bone doctor. That’s quite a change of pace. What caused you to become a writer?”
“Mission work. My wife and I have been on medical missions these past ten years.”
“Mercy Ship?”
“Yeah, you’ve been?”
“I work as a pharmacist . . . Heard a calling for medical missions with Mercy Ship . . . Eighteen years ago.” The memory uploaded, and I saw myself walking the woods, communing with Father God. “When I told my wife that God had called me to the mission field, she flipped out, rebuked the idea. Couldn’t understand it, I mean we were newly married, and our first son wasn’t even a year old,” I said with a smirk.
“We raised our three boys on the Mercy Ship,” Tim offered.
My jaw dropped as I looked at him in disbelief. “No way.” I was watching the guy I could’ve become. “Well, it takes the right partner to pull that off.”
“Yeah, Julia is an exceptional woman, a wonderfully supportive wife.”
I hadn’t noticed that our table had filled with the ladies. Hmmm, Christian fiction writers, are they all middle aged?
Tim was already introducing himself and his book, Maya Hope, and passing out biz cards. “Might as well give these away. That’s why we had them printed, right?” He chuckled.
Oh, yeah, the biz cards. I fumbled for mine and followed his lead.
“What do you write about?” She directed her question to Tim, barely audible over the six conversations going on at once. These women! All they do is talk!
“Medical thrillers . . .”
Crap. My genre is too dang complex, too many words. Okay, transformational fiction it is. Real characters that transform as a result of consequential events. Bad girl gets saved. I mentally rehearsed the lines, hoping to be asked.
“Oh, you’re a doctor,” she remarked while looking at his card. “Well, Dr. Brown are you published?”
Doctor Brown. Call him Tim. He’s not here as a doctor. He’s a writer. Medical thrillers. I bet he has some stories, like cutting off the wrong leg?
I turned to the woman next to me, probably a housewife. Boy, was I being judgmental. Sheesh, you’re not even published. “Hi. I’m Jeremiah. I write transformational fiction.”
“Oh? What’s that about?”
“You’ll probably hear about it from Ted Dekker, the keynote speaker. I finished his course in transformational fiction this spring. Inspirational. Confirmed what I already knew. There you go again, Mr. Arrogant. You’re here to discover. Ain’t gonna happen with that attitude. Humbled, I continued, “Actually, the course put me back on track, found my identity, not as a writer, rather as a son of the Father—”
“Welcome, American Christian Fiction Writers!” The MC announced with pizzazz. Cheers erupted from the audience. Tears welled in my eyes, a lump caught in my throat. I don’t deserve to be here, Father.
The words of the Holy Spirit confirmed my presence as from His grace—You did not make this happen. I did.
I had learned a valuable lesson since my fast and prayers in January. I had dismantled my natural impulse to act in the flesh with my striving mantra—I’ll make it happen. I had put on the robe of Grace and embraced my identity as a son of the Father. I daily surrendered my will and willingly and obediently received the cup of my Father’s will for my life and destiny—Let Me do it.
I was out of my comfort zone.
Begin the journey with Jeremiah in his first episode, “Roses Are For Lovers.”
Praise to my Father for the words He speaks to me.
Copyright 2016 © Jeff Cambridge
