Translating a World on the Edge

The ten stories in Birds of a Feather are now launched and flying!  And I’m flying with them—to the last mile.  I hope both people of faith and people who have no faith will enjoy reading them, and when they’ve finished the last page and close the book, that something of these stories will stay with them.

Some Praise:

The first story in this collection sits a reader bolt upright. Two stories in, you marvel at this storyteller, who sends us flying over new country, a landscape of modern parables where faith runs river-deep. Kaye Park Hinckley seems to overflow with beautiful, heartbreaking love and lessons. A world with broken wings can surely make use of such stories.
—Charles McNair, author of Pickett’s Charge and Land O’Goshen

“With masterful control and skillful writing, Kaye Park Hinckley boldly explores a wide range of wounded souls in this amazing collection of stories, ultimately finding love in the unloveable, and grace in the sufferings of a complex world.”
—Cassandra King, author of The Sunday Wife

Kaye Hinckley writes deeply textured stories with a distinctive voice.  Characters caught up in complex relationships, against the background of a fraying South, seeking yet often rejecting redemption. Sin as thick as grits and gravy pervades her stories…and Salvations lurks coyly, always just out of sight – it flitters through the pages like the birds who flitter through her stories. This is a wonderful volume, and I recommend it to all who contemplate our human condition.
–Arthur Powers, A Hero For The People, and The Book of Jotham

http://www.amazon.com/Birds-Feather-Kaye-Park-Hinckley/dp/069223473X/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1405273546&sr=1-3&keywords=kaye+park+Hinckley

OR

http://www.wisebloodbooks.com/kaye-park-hinckley.html

Or your favorite bookstore.

A human characteristic is the ability to speak, to converse, to give instruction, to make our opinions known. We talk. We use our tongues–sometimes without thinking, and sometimes very intentionally.

Our speech is directed to another, a listener. The listener may be a child, a friend, a family member, or a stranger in the grocery store. Regardless of who or where, what we say to each other matters. Speech is a gift to be used with care. I would suggest loving care, though I’m often guilty of overlooking that.

Matthew 12:36 says, “But I tell you that every careless word that people speak, they shall give an accounting for it in the day of judgment. For by your words you will be justified, and by your words you will be condemned.”

Wow! That’s a lot of personal responsibility.

Yet what we say to each other is not always done with words. Often it’s what we D0 that speaks loudest. How do our actions speak to our vulnerable children, or the friends and family who learn from us? Are we responsible in our actions as parents and teachers, leaders and co-workers? Do we practice what we preach? Again, many of us often fall far short of that. It’s a good thing we have personal control over what we do, and if needed, the ability to correct ourselves.

There are times though, when we’re not the ‘speakers’ or the ‘doers,’ but the receivers, the targets of speech and action. Over this, we have less control, and no doubt the voices and actions are loud–the media, movies, TV, newspapers, books, and even our own government.

Except each of these voices are made up of individuals like us. Are these individuals any less responsible than us for what they say or do? Don’t they, too, have the ability to correct themselves–or have greed and power simply struck them dumb and immobile?

And for our part—do we listen to them as if they rule us, as if they rule the world? Do we obey when ‘they say’ don’t talk back?  Or do we use our own judgment as to what we’ll allow to take root inside our  minds, and use personal courage–and responsibility– to express it?

You know them. You’ve probably welcomed them into in your home: the painters, floorers, plumbers, electricians—all those who help to keep up the house in which you live.

Some of us try to do these tasks ourselves, and some of us know better than to try.  So, we call in the Restorers. Because we want order. Because we want things to work as they were made to work–and because we know what happens if we let it all go.

When the refrigerator goes out, the food goes bad. When the toilets stop up, the bathroom floods, and maybe even ruins the floors. When sparks come from an electrical socket,  fire is a definite possibility. No one can deny that these  problems need attention. No one can deny that to ignore them is foolhardy, even irresponsible. We must use our heads and solve the problem in our house.

But don’t we have another house for which We The People are responsible? And don’t we call her The United States of America? It’s my opinion, she’s in a problematic, even deadlocked, situation, especially when it comes to our ever-degrading culture. Many feel this deeply, and are attempting to right the wrongs. But most of us only comment and move on to something more pleasurable. We are not Restorers. Instead, we are letting our cultural problems go without doing much to fix them. In fact, some even believe our Country’s too far gone to fix at all. I don’t share that opinion.

When my children were little and complaining about a problem and how they couldn’t fix it. I usually sang them a few verses from the following children’s song about using commonsense. It makes a good point about those who are problem-solvers, and those who are not.

You’ll see the progression: Henry’s whining about all the reasons why fixing his problem with the bucket can’t be done, while Liza offers suggestion after suggestion as to how it can be done.

Once a month, when I was about thirteen years old, I used to accompany a friend to The Cove Hotel in Panama City, Florida, where her father did the books for the elderly lady who owned the hotel. But even then, The Cove was older than she was. Built in 1926, it was two stories of pink stucco, surrounded by huge trees, and set on the shore of St, Andrews Bay off the Gulf of Mexico. I thought it was beautiful.

For my trips to the Cove, my mother made sure I took the proper clothing. That meant a dress for dinner, along with the right shoes. Usually, that was a sun dress and strappy white sandals. Dinner was served at a certain time, on spotless white tablecloths, with starched white napkins and a lot of heavy silverware, properly set. My friend and I felt like princesses. But always, there was something we looked forward to that was even better. The Miracle. And we could make it happen ourselves.

After dinner, we walked down to the bay, tossed our sandals on the sand, tucked up our pretty dresses, and walked calf-high in the dark water. With each movement, bursts of light, like stars, surrounded us. Light out of darkness. Our Miracle. Our Gift.

In my novel, A Hunger in the Heart, Coleman is shown the same gift by his father, when he thrusts a hand into dark water. There, it’s a symbol of hope in the middle of heartbreak. But for many years, I knew nothing of serious heartbreak.

Later on, at twice the age I was then, I faced heartbreak for the first time. One of my children was diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor. She was five years old. The word, heartbreak, could not come close to what I felt. I didn’t know how to deal with such a dark situation—and it did seem so dark!

For years, our entire family struggled valiantly with a situation we could not control. And it made us stronger. Then, one evening, in intensive care, I was holding her hand after her third operation, and the doctor came in to give an assessment of the tumor. He said he thought they’d finally ‘gotten it all.’ Talk about the opposite of heartbreak! I was filled with JOY. We had been in the dark water and now were surrounded with stars.

Only later, did I remember the Cove Hotel and the miracle I found within the dark water of the Bay.

But isn’t this the way life is? When we look back, haven’t the hard times made us stronger? Didn’t we cling to the hope that things would get better? This is why a writer of Catholic fiction can say that God is now, and always will be, present in our world. He is our Hope—in times of sorrow and tragedy, as well as in times of happiness and joy.

Because this is the week of the Fourth, I’m going to re-blog a few popular posts, so here goes:

Freedom is a big word. A weighty word. A lengthy word. The locomotive of Freedom is championed by words, like Liberty and Independence. But the locomotive’s steam is often the lack of any restriction or inhibition.

The train of Freedom runs two ways, and on conflicting tracks. One is a track of lies, the other a track of truth.

Before you buy a ticket on one train or the other, there are questions to ask: Where does it come from? Where is it going? And most especially, who is its engineer?

The lying train of Freedom can be very long and black. It can come from jumbled and defective thinking. It can take us to foolishness and death. And its engineer can be a faulty entity of propaganda.

Do we really have the freedom to kill innocent babies? The engineers of society and our government say we can.

Do we honestly have the freedom to forget our marriage vow, or steal another person’s wife or husband, or to have sex with whomever we want? The engineers of Hollywood say we can.

Do we truthfully have the freedom to knock ourselves out with dope at the expense of the life of our family and our own life as well? The enormous drug trade says we can.

Who is your engineer? Who is driving your Freedom train? We do have a choice. On which train will you buy a ticket?

For you were called for freedom, brothers and sisters.
But do not use this freedom as an opportunity for the flesh;
rather, serve one another through love. For the whole law is fulfilled in one statement, namely, You shall love your neighbor as yourself. But if you go on biting and devouring one another, beware that you are not consumed by one another.–Gal 5:1 13-18