I'd Let My Little Light Shine--If Only I knew all the Words to the Song!

I missed my first opportunity when I was four years old.

Mom, her friend, her friend’s five-year-old daughter and adorable me went to a Bill and Gloria Gaither concert. I wore my favorite lavender dress (that later I nose-bled all over and ruined—sad day!), and my blond hair in little doggie-ears.

I was almost as cute that night as my little friend, Ada.

At some point in the night, The Gaithers were going to sing “This Little Light of Mine”, and looked around for a brave little girl to come up to the stage and sing with them. I raised my hand because my friend did. They scanned the audience and their eyes stopped on me.

Wonderful Bill, with his beautiful smile, asked did I know the song.

“Yes.”

Forgive me, Jesus. I lied to Bill Gaither.

Until that point in my young life, I’d never aspired to sing with The Gaithers. But at that moment, it became the biggest desire I’d ever known—except the walking doll I wanted for Christmas—but that’s beside the point. Plus, I’d had that for awhile by then.

Bill and Gloria waved me up there to sing with them, and I froze. The crowd clapped, trying to encourage the shy little girl. But I didn’t budge.

And for the record, I’m the youngest of seven siblings and was treated like a Princess by everyone in my family—I wasn’t shy at all! I was used to getting all the attention.

But here’s what I knew at four years old. If I went up there, I’d fail, because all I knew of the song was, “This Little Light of mine, I’m going to let it shine.” To my credit, I sang it on key, but only that one line.

Bill Gaither waved me up there again, everyone in the auditorium turned to me and I felt….FEAR.

Fear of failure, fear of missing the mark. Oh, Lord, why had I ever raised my sweet tiny little hand?

I did the only thing I could: Gave a panicked shake of my head that sent my doggie ears dancing and ducked into the safety of my mother’s side.

As a side note, let me just say, I did not receive my mother’s gift of mercy. If my kid had raised a hand, gotten picked and tried to back out, I’d have shoved them out of their seat with the admonishment not to shame me in front of however many people were there. But that’s just me. Mom was and is a lot nicer.

Anyway, as an adult, I realize that 1.) It’s not that hard of a song to fake and 2.) they would have helped me through it.

But even at four years old, image meant more to me than stepping out, taking a chance and feeling good about what I’d done. See, I’d just gone through something similar. My Kindergarten class was performing the ever-popular song “Christmas Tree Cookies…Yummy, Yum, Yum.” You know, you know it.

My daddy had cut out a huge cardboard cookie as big as little me and decorated it with red and green glitter plus those little flat, multi-colored candies that really don’t taste very good. And my cookie—was cool. Only, I didn’t know that song either. So I spent the entire performance biting on my cookie and grinning like I planned it that way.

Ah….I shamed the family.

And there was no way I was going to do it again.

So I had to sit there while my friend was picked—because of course she really did know the song—and live with regret.

And the pattern has followed me into adulthood, causing me to keep walls around me like a shield rather than allowing Favor to surround me and set me up for success.

If I’m not sure I’ll succeed, I don’t even try.

But that’s what faith is all about. Stepping into choppy water on the off chance I won’t sink.

I’m realizing lately my perfection isn’t what pleases God—it’s stepping out on shaky legs and sometimes desperate fear—into the unknown—keeping my eyes focused on Jesus.

It’s a lesson I’m still learning.

But I do know this: If Bill Gaither ever picks me out of a crowd to sing with him again—it could happen—I’ll sashay up to that stage, grab a mic and let my little light shine.

Just Hit Me Over the Head with a Palm Branch--I Have it Coming!

I love listening to my pastor preach. He’s the only preacher I can listen to for forty-five minutes and not get bored, not let my ADD brain take me away to whatever book or project I’m working on or thinking about working on at the time. He’s just easy to listen to. And that’s no joke.

Yesterday, he preached a great message—the third and final in his series on the Holy Spirit. He’s often repeated stories over the years. Awesome stories he tells from time to time, that those of us who’ve heard him awhile love to hear again. Newer members listening for the first time cry—they’re really powerful, authentic moments. And yesterday he was sharing about twenty-three years ago, when he rededicated his life to God and made the decision to drop out of college and go to Bible college.

I love this story. Wrote a play around it, even, and we performed it successfully a few years ago. I wanted to hear it again. Every. Single. Word. As he segued into the telling, I leaned forward, one leg crossed over the other, elbow resting on my knee, chin in hand…anticipating…

And then it happened…

The lady behind me starting talking.

Distracting me…ADD me. Frustrated, I shifted, gave a little breath to let her know SOME people wanted to hear what the man was saying. Show a little respect, lady. This story is about a monumental day of obedience that has changed a LOT of lives in our 800-member church. Including yours—although you clearly don’t appreciate it.

Anyway, the sigh didn’t work. So I decided to pray.

Shut her up, God. Shut her up. Shut her up! I want to hear this!!

Clearly, God couldn’t shut her up either…the chatter continued. My irritation rose and I seriously considered moving to a different seat, but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself… Plus, it would have been rude, and I wasn’t that far gone.

So, I missed most of the story…stayed annoyed through the salvation prayer, moral of the story prayer, AND while I plunked down my whopping thirteen dollars for the Heart for the House love offering we take up once a month for church stuff.

After the dismissal, I turned around to get my purse and my eye caught the woman’s. She smiled—completely unaware of my inner temper tantrum. I offered a cursory, “If you only knew how ticked off I am at you, right now” smile, and went to find my family so we could just get out of there.

We got home after the weekly after-church stop at Walmart, where I ordered an eight piece chicken from the deli—only it would have been a fifteen minute wait—SERIOUSLY? For crying out loud, just give me popcorn chicken. If I could have found a way to blame the woman at church for that, I would have.

At home, as soon as the TV was free, I started the DVRed Mary Tyler Moore marathon, ready to put the morning behind me and move on.

The only problem was, I couldn’t escape it. My mind replayed the morning from wakeup to now, in little scenes like it does when I’m planning scenes for a book. Only this book had already been written. I couldn’t rewrite it and I knew God wasn’t pleased.

If I’m asking God—and I am—to show me my heart and change my ways, I have to allow the correction.

The truth is, it wasn’t about the big mouth behind me who annoyed me and distracted me from my favorite Pastor Matt story. It was about me. My bad attitude from the minute I woke up.

I begrudged the Lord yesterday. I’ve started this 40 day thing where I keep my commitments, including Sunday morning at church and I was mad that this was day 22, I had a raging hormonal headache along with other aches and pains, Hallmark channel was showing a Mary Tyler Moore marathon and honestly, church was the last place I wanted to go. BUT unlike the Tracey of a month ago—I got myself ready and went anyway. Figured God would take the sacrifice into consideration and have my back.

I tried to press in, but I struggled through worship—Why’d they choose these stupid songs? I hit moments where I ALMOST worshiped in truth, but for the most part, I never really entered in.

So maybe the worship leader flopped, but I was still looking forward to the message. UNTIL…

Shut her up, God. Shut her up. Shut her up.

Couldn’t He have made sure no one distracted me during Pastor Matt’s last ten minutes—which was the only thing I’d been looking forward to when I got up, knowing from a Tweet, he was planning to tell it. God knows where I always sit, He knows I go to the last possible service of the morning. Too much to ask that the talking woman NOT sit behind me? I really don’t think so. I mean sure, SHE doesn’t hear your voice, Lord, but if you’d given me a heads up, I could have sat elsewhere…Lord knows, I’d never move to the other side of the church, but a couple rows back would have helped.

But let’s be real here, I blew it. I missed a great opportunity to worship—because worship was awesome.

I had the not-awesome attitude.

I forgot about grace, forgot that, without love, all the changes God is making in me mean nothing. I forgot that He is worthy to be praised regardless of my feelings, attitude and aches.

I also forgot about the podcast, but that's beside the point.

I’m grateful for correction, even when looking at myself brings me shame. When I thought I was doing so well and realized I’m still capable of sabotaging the opportunities that come along with going to a great church with great worship and relevant preaching.

I still hope that lady grows enough to realize only one person should be speaking during the sermon, but I also hope if she sits behind me next week and chatters on again, that I’ll have more grace, more wisdom, more love-- that my worship reaches God’s heart as a sweet offering and not a clanging gong.

New mercies…

After reading this, Rusty says, “Boy, it’s a good thing we didn’t have communion, you’d have fallen over dead.”

Smile….

Boiled fat, Wet socks and Crazy Jokes

As I sit on my deck this beautiful spring morning, with sun shining to my left and thunder rumbling behind dark clouds to my right, I’m attempting to accept a challenge from Karen, who is my agent, to try a different type of writing. Something nonfiction and from my heart; Something that says, “I know you’re messy, dear reader, but I promise, you are not alone.”

But honestly, I’m pretty sure I can’t make it happen in any sort of way that will make sense to anyone but me.

My brain is locked up and it doesn’t help that the “N” key on my computer keeps popping off every time I touch it. Plus, my older brother is at Wal-Mart and keeps texting me pictures of each item he’s buying for his St. Patrick’s Day dinner. He’s a lot like me. Except, he bakes his corned beef with cloves and hot mustard and sautés his cabbage. This is what he tells me in a text. I tell him it’s tons easier to toss everything in a pot (corned beef, cabbage, potatoes) and let it cook.

Him: I don’t like boiled fat.

Me: I get that every time I lay in the tanning bed.

He LOLs. I smile and turn off my ringer so I can get back to writing.

I’ve committed to sitting at my computer every day, but commitment comes hard to me. Failure is easier, more familiar. I hate it, but I have a bit of Stockholm syndrome when it comes to never measuring up. People don’t expect greatness, just okay-ness. And I don’t have to push myself.

Except, Karen didn’t get the memo. She has confidence this is just what I need right now. I know she’s right, but I don’t want to disappoint. And there’s a pretty good chance I will.

The dark side of the sky won out over the valiant sun and rain is splattering on my computer, forcing me to make a dash for the house where the smells of corned beef and pickling spices and cabbage slide over me, and I think about my brother again. He’s home by now and his house probably smells like cloves and hot mustard. I pity him.

Just as I sit down with my laptop and try to refocus, he texts me again, and even though the ringer isn’t on, the glow from my IPhone tips me off, so I glance down.

Him: I love the romance in Darby O’Gill and the Little People
Me: Me too. Darby’s and the Leprechaun King

He LOLs again and I smile again. Ours is one of the few relationships in my life where I feel secure enough to be completely myself—without fear. I wonder how he’ll feel knowing I'm talking about him on my blog.

Doubts are hitting me again, and I’m tempted to forget about writing anymore today. It IS St. Patrick’s Day after all and Mom loaned me Sweet Rosie O’Grady with Betty Grable to watch. Plus the broken N key is really getting on my nerves.

But I know inside it’s not time to stop, so I pray that God will point my fingers in the right direction and I think again about how amazed I am at Karen’s depth of intuition.
I’m still nervous about my relationship with her. I’ve wanted to work with Karen since before I was published in 2000 when she was still the hottest editor in the Christian fiction market. I still can’t believe she agreed to be my agent. It’s a pretty new partnership and we’ve already had a couple of tense moments. We’re still getting to know each other and growing pains are normal. She’s patiently allowing me to reveal my layers to her. She’s tough and she’s kind and she’s not afraid of my issues.

I emailed her last night, filled with a sudden gripping fear, and asked what made her suggest I do nonfiction. Her beautiful response went something like this, (well, it actually went exactly like this): I heard the weariness in you the first time we talked. I knew you still had things to say to readers, but I also could tell something was missing. Something crucial. The more we talked and emailed, the more I felt the nudge to ask you about nonfiction. Your voice in fiction is lyrical and I knew it would be equally so in nonfiction. And I knew your struggles weren't yours alone, that many--including me, at times--struggle with similar issues.

By “issues” she means people pleasing, authenticity, truth in the innermost being. Identity.

And that made me cry. I worry about not writing another novel right now. What if I don’t sell enough to justify my agent giving me a slot in her coveted and limited pool of clients? I conveyed this to her on the phone the other night—during the same conversation where she asked me if I’d ever considered writing nonfiction. After assuring me she wouldn’t drop me, she reminded me I don’t need to be God. He’s her source, not me.

Good point. Smile.

Still, she’s right about the weariness. Something crucial is missing. Authenticity. Truth. Writing from the heart. Life has taught me to work to please and rejection slices at my confidence, sending me straight to the carbs.

Through the drapes I notice the sun tries to peek through in the middle of a thundershower. It’s a metaphor, I think, and maybe God did this just for me. Black clouds still cover half the sky. I feel that way. Stormy inside, clouds of doubt, failure, insecurity. Thunder rumbles dark lies, “You’ll never get this. People will see right through you. You can’t even help yourself, who’s going to listen to a word you say?”

But somehow through all of this, the warm rays of sun fight to get through. “Trust me to shine my light through the storm clouds. You don’t have to make it work out. All you have to do is close your eyes, feel the rays, and let the clouds disintegrate.”

I’ll try, Jesus. I’ll really try.

As I come to the end of today’s writing, the puppy whines to go outside. I forget I’m wearing socks and step out onto the wet porch. Instantly, they’re soaked. And these are my only paired up socks since Rusty is gone for two weeks, and he’s the only one in the family who ever takes time for socks. Then I forget again half a second later and sit on the porch to wait for the puppy to do her thing. Now my socks and my seat are wet.

I’m so far from perfect it hurts sometimes. Frustrates me. I’m a perfectionist who’s never perfect. Things like wet socks and wet yoga pants make my husband laugh in a delighted, non-judgy way. But I’m hard on myself. I wish I could get it together.

Jesus loves me, this I know…boiled fat, soggy socks, wet seat and crazy jokes.

She Likes Me, She really, really likes me!

“I like that Tracey Bacon.”

Ada is my new friend. She’s three years old. She has blond hair, chubby, sun-kissed cheeks and a ready smile that makes me feel special. As I chat with her mom about writing, life, and peri-menopausal hormones, Ada runs barefoot in and out of the back door on her wonderful little-person legs, dressed in teeny tiny jeans and a T-shirt. She brings me flowers. I know they’re weeds, but she hides them behind her back and presents them so proudly all I see is a beautiful bouquet—and I can’t help but sit a little taller.

Ada likes me. I know this because she’s three and because she says so.

That’s it.

Even before I handed over a Ziploc bag of leftover chewy Jolly Ranchers, Ada had already made up her mind about me—had already decided to honor me with her friendship. Here’s why: Last time I met Ada, I said, “See ya later, Alligator” as I walked out the door.
Promptly, she told her mom, “I like that Tracey Bacon.”
Just me. Being me. Not trying to please or impress. I captured sunshine in the body of a tiny, precocious three-year-old girl and I’ve been living in the afterglow ever since.

I’m enough for Ada. I’m enough for Jesus.

I have to think about this. Ponder it. Is it really that easy? If I’m just being me, will people like me the way Ada does?

Do I have to be Tracey—the writer—Bateman. Tracey—the super-spiritual, have it all together—Bateman. What about Tracey—the animal-lover, perfect mom, good cook, edgy, funny, skinny, pretty woman—Bateman.

I can be a lot of different people—not all of them are truly me—and honestly, I’m a little afraid of taking off the hats that don’t fit. There’s a lot of messy hair under there!

But right now? For a moment, I look a little girl in the eye, and she likes me: Tracey Bacon.

How a Little can change a LOT

Author extraordinaire, Gina Holmes, has given me a challenge: Will I tithe my blog. To which I say, "YES"
Please read the following article and follow your heart as God leads. The photos didn't come through, but if you would like to read it online with the pictures, please follow this link. Otherwise, the text is intact.

http://www.inspireafire.com/940/

How A Little Can Change A Lot
Posted by Jessica on Oct 23, 2011 in Callings, Latest, Missions | 6 comments



“We have much to be judged on when he comes, slums and battlefields and insane asylums, but these are the symptoms of our illness and the result of our failures in love.” – Madeleine L’Engle

When my brother traveled to the Sudan he had an encounter that changed his life—and as it ends up, mine too.
He stood in Darfur at an orphanage filled with children leftover from the genocide. There were over 800 children, and during the night wild dogs were dragging them off and killing them.
My brother already felt shell-shocked from the travesties he’d witnessed in Uganda.
The day was hot. The sun beat down upon him. His camera had nearly been ruined from all the dust. He’d barely slept. His gear was heavy. Yet his conscience was seared by the numbness he felt, so he turned and confessed to a Sudanese pastor.
“We shall pray right now that your heart will be opened,” he was told.
Not long after that prayer three young children approached Joshua and started to follow him. After a bit, his father nature kicked in and he stopped and sang Father Abraham. It didn’t take long before the four of them were dancing and going through the motions.
When they finished, he asked the children to tell him how they came to be there.
The oldest, a girl, answered. “The soldiers came and shot my mother and father, so I came here.”
The two other children nodded in agreement. “Me, too.”
He was grief struck, but it was what transpired next that tore my heart. “Do you have a Mommy?” The little girl asked my brother.
“Yes,” he answered.
“And a Daddy?”
Again, his answer was yes.
“Oh,” she said, her voice hinting at a strange intermingling of numbness and grief.
Her question stirs me still. For I believe it came from her soul and revealed the thoughts of her heart. She didn’t want to know what his country was like, what kind of food he ate, or what he did for a living. She had her own bullet holes leftover from the genocide. Her world consisted of this single question: Who still had parents and who didn’t?
In her questions I heard her worry and fear. Imagine being trapped in a war-torn country, a land of famine, drought and disease. Imagine trying to survive it as an orphan with death threatening you every hour. No matter how much she’s endured, at the end of the day, she’s still just a little girl. And all she really wants is her Mom and Dad.
I imagined my daughter living as an orphan in the Sudan. If I were shot and dying, it would be my hope that my brothers and sisters would care for her. But what if her aunts and uncles were killed too? What was it then, that her parents hoped?
As members of the body of Christ these children are not alone. They have aunts and uncles. Multitudes and multitudes and multitudes of them. Talk about staggering! These kids are our nieces and nephews! Mine. Yours.
So who, I wondered, within the church has the responsibility to step in?
I didn’t like the answer that came. Earlier that week I was shocked to learn that globally I was one of the richest people in the world—even though as an American, I’m pretty poor.
Like it or not I was the rich aunt. I had knowledge of the situation. That made me accountable.
I wasn’t comfortable with the knowledge then, and I’m not comfortable with the knowledge now. But I am determined to do something. Anything.

That day Joshua had in his possession a picture book that someone had asked him to give to someone in the Sudan. It was a children’s book with a story about how we have a Heavenly Father who always loves and cares for us. Joshua read the book and gave it to them.
An American woman took it upon herself to raise the money to build shelter. Every person who donated, even a dollar, helped to create a place where the little girl now sleeps safe from wild dogs.
When Joshua told me he’s going to start a branch of Watermelon Ministries called Media Change, a non-profit encouraging Americans to give up a portion of the money spent on entertainment to serve those fighting world hunger and thirst, I wanted to support it.
For seven years he’s helped non-profits raise money that serves the “least of these.” He’s seen the impact a small investment can have. This is a brand new initiative. He’s not quite ready to launch, but you can sign up and be kept updated at www.mediachange.org. His first goal is garner the support of 10,000 people who are willing to give $10 a month. I’m number #3.
This is only a blog post, but who knows what one blog post can do.
What if the task of helping others isn’t as overwhelming as we make it?

Coffee and Jesus--Two constants

We have gone through a really odd season for the last six months. A place I think a lot of people are camping in. Economy woes and unemployment. Post deployment unemployment has been our cross and it hasn't been TOO bad until recently when the savings are dried up, book money is on hold or gone, stuff that many of us are having to face.

We aren't promised no trials. As a matter of fact, despite the fact that Jesus WILL overcome for us, we are pretty much guaranteed that we will face situations where we will have to throw ourselves on God's mercy and watch his faithfulness unfold.
Two things God has graciously allowed me to keep during this time: Coffee and His Word. Not sure I could live without either of them.
I've grown absolutely dependent on mornings alone on the deck with Jesus, coffee and my word count for the day.

My song for the day is "The Power of the Cross" by Natalie Grant and my Bible reading Psalm 27.
Give it a shot. Find a quiet place and let God walk you through the waves.

In His love
Tracey

Awakening the Dawn--and a sneak peek.

You know me...I've never been a morning person. If I wake up before the alarm I consider myself severely chastised by God. Except this week something has begun to change. Monday I started a six week writing project, slow and steady wins the race. Daily word count that must be strictly adhered to in order to meet the goal and finish the experiment--Can I write the first draft with my heart and then go back with 10 days to spare before deadline and write with my head?
That's what Sean Connery's eccentric, writer character admonishes in Finding Forrester.
But I've never been that kind of writer. To me, three weeks before deadline is a good time for the frenzied fever writing to begin. But I am tired of the craze. Not meeting deadlines, lack of discipline or something crazy comes up like a kid gets sick or I do and my writing goes to heck for a few days.

This week has been awesome. Only, for some reason I started it at 3:30 am Monday morning instead of the 8am I planned. But I liked it. The next morning, same thing happened. Only one day this week have I not woken up at 3:30 and that was yesterday. Every day I've met the goal and every day I felt God smile at my obedience. Even yesterday when pushing through later in the day with more distractions. I wrote this last night. Anyone who has watched the night fall away from the woods over the river, specifically in the Ozarks, knows this picture well. For those who don't, I hope I've painted it for you here. My heroine is sitting on her porch waiting for the sun to come up:

From a new work tentatively titled ARE YOU THERE? To be released Spring 2012:

"The sun would rise behind the house and flash across the treeline where the haze rose from the river overnight, an ethereal fog like something out of a movie. The thick mist blanketing the trees would give up its hold on the ancient oaks and cedars as the sun burst through the morning. The breathtaking view never got old and I ached that I’d never share it with Jarrod in person. Two weeks ago—for me, the morning of the day he died, for him, the night before—we sat together with our computers and watched the sun rise across our trees and we both cried."