On writing memoir

I met with my writing group as they looked over the pages of Tribal Church. I had written about my experience as a teenager traveling to China as a short-term missionary. I looked out of the train window and saw people everywhere—good, kind, smiling people. They were in misted rice paddies, using each inch of land was wisely. They were in the grey city, riding bicycles to factories. I tried to imagine the God whom I loved sending these people to an eternal fiery torment because they didn’t ask Jesus into their hearts. I simply couldn’t do it. I could not send a billion people to an eternity of weeping and gnashing, and God was much more gracious and loving than I was.

Ruth Everhart, who organized our group (and is coming out with her memoir this fall), read the story, looked up and said, “You’ve got a memoir brewing in you. I don’t know if you realize that, but it’s in these pages and it wants to get out.”

Then I had two voices in conflict within me. Ruth is the sort of friend I listen to. She is not only an excellent writer, but she’s a wise woman. Actually, this is a moment when capitalization is in order—a Wise Woman. If you have one of those in your life, you know to stop and listen when she talks.