By Kiera Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

As long as I’ve been writing Christian Drama, I’ve been asked, “Where do you get your ideas?” This is usually asked by people who don’t know me very well.   Anyone who knows me also knows exactly where I get my ideas.  From them.

Many times I’ve gone out to eat with friends only to have someone notice part way through the meal that I’m not saying anything.  That is sometimes a product of my personality but usually it’s because I’m madly scribbling mental notes about my dining companions, their lives and their public conversations. 

When I first began writing Christian Drama, I had a vision of what I did NOT want my scripts to be: boring, stuffy, sanctimonious, sickeningly-sweet, idealistic, sit-com-esque fiction.   I wanted my drama to be real.  I wanted the people who saw it to easily place themselves into the script.  I wanted them to feel what my characters feel and be drawn into a very real situation and/or conflict.   The result?  Scripts that resonate with real people.  Friends who laugh about seeing pieces of their lives played out on stage.  And most importantly, no defamation lawsuits! Yet.

I do have a few guidelines about using real lives as inspiration for my scripts.   I try very hard not to embarrass or humiliate people.  I won’t say I never have because I don’t know that for sure; but it’s something that I’m always aware of.  The things I use most often are the funny, slice of life things that happen in day to day life.  I have used the lyrics a father created as he sang the blues while changing his tiny daughter’s stinky diaper.  I have used a disastrous fudge-making experience that a friend of mine had as an 11 year old.   Here’s a hint…gasoline does not remove stubborn fudge from a Pyrex dish.  I have used verbatim conversations and playful arguments.  I have used over-the-top personalities and bad customer service experiences.  I even used things from my own childhood such as vacation road trips where the words, “Don’t make me stop this car!” were often heard.  

It’s important to me that I be extremely responsible about what I use.  I always change the names to protect the innocent and give the guilty a means of easy escape.  If I use a situation that is not so funny and even a little bit personal, I ask first and allow the subject editing rights.  And I never, ever enter someone else’s pain without the name of Jesus on my lips.   To do anything less would be careless at best with strong leanings toward absolute evil.

I have a purpose.  That purpose is to produce real scripts that touch real lives.  For that purpose, I use real lives and real people.   Is that cheating?  Does that make me more of a tabloid-type reporter than a writer?  I don’t think it does.  Although it may seem extremely voyeuristic of me, my method works well.  I know this because of the comments I’ve gotten from people who have seen my dramas.  “I’ve had the same struggle this week.  I needed to hear how someone else dealt with it.”  “My sister went through a similar situation.  I’m going to bring her back tomorrow.”  “I loved the husband/wife characters!  It was like you were peeking in my windows!”  This was from someone I’d never met.  I wasn’t peeking in her windows.  Honest!

I also had one of my actors tell me once, “It constantly amazes me how you can take bits and pieces from all of our lives and weave them together to create a real story that teaches Bibical truth about God.”  In a moment of personal epiphany, I realized that I could not have come up with a better mission statement for what I do.

If I had advice for anyone writing Christian Drama, it would simply be this.  Remember that you are writing for God first and that everything that goes down on paper (Or R.A.M. as the case may be.) must be Holy and pleasing to Him.  You can’t really move on if step one isn’t right.  I hate cliches but as Christian writers we are absolutely writing for an audience of One.  Nothing else really matters.

A few months ago, my husband and I were in Nebraska for a few days and I had the opportunity to have dinner with some old friends.  This particular group of friends have given me countless drama ideas and dialog over the years.  As we ate and the conversation fell around me, I found myself falling into the familiar role of observer.  Ideas blossomed and began to take shape as I listened to the conversations.  I felt the urge to get to my computer and begin writing while everything was fresh.  Eventually someone realized that I’d grown quiet and made the traditional, “Are you getting enough material?” comment and we all had a good laugh.

Thanks for dinner, everyone!  I had a blast and I promise I’ll change all the names! 

And thank you, God.  For a creative mind, a way with words, and a loving group of friends who let me borrow from their lives.  I am among the truly blessed.

By Kiera Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

Have you heard?  The Colorado Rockies are in the World Series!   Apparently few people in Atlanta have heard the news.  Apparently few people in Atlanta have heard of the Colorado Rockies.  Period.

Last Thursday, my husband and I did a fairly thorough search of local retailers looking for Colorado Rockies t-shirts.    We just wanted to support our team.  This is the first time the Rockies have ever been to the World Series.  For a Colorado native like myself who lived through the Denver Bears era, this is a big deal!  I’m proud of my team.

The search did not go well.  If there is a Rockies shirt anywhere in our area, it’s exceptionally well hidden.  The search was frustrating albeit interesting.  The reaction of the sales clerks we encountered bordered on ridiculous.   At each stop we would explain that we were looking for Colorado Rockies shirts.  Each time we were met with blank stares — except for one helpful lady who happily showed me to a stack of black and gold shirts.  Thank you, no.  I know they sound similar but the University of Colorado and the Colorado Rockies are not one and the same.

As we were heading for home, we drove past a large discount chain-store – which, to protect the innocent, shall remain nameless.  Always.   Shopping failure tends to make me a little giddy anyway so we threw caution to the wind and made one, last, hopeful, stop.  “Who knows?” I thought.  “They have a vast inventory of items.  Maybe they’ve heard of the Rockies.”

Nope.  With our little consumer hearts broken, we headed for the door.  That was when we saw it.  Right in front of the door.  Right by the greeter.  A big cardboard box full of festive, autumnal gourds.   Then we looked at the sign on the box.  We blinked.  Shook our heads and blinked again.  And then my husband snickered and began to elbow me.  “Look at that!”  He said as he pointed.  I didn’t have to look.  I was staring right at the sign.  Jeff went ahead and read the sign for me anyway.  “Lage (Pronounced: “Law-gey” as best as we can figure.)  Pumpkins”. 

I was still blinking as I processed what Jeff said and what I was reading.  The sign was indeed missing an “r” in the word “large.”  However the sign was missing something else — unless Webster’s changed the spelling of “pumpkin” without telling me.  Yes, indeed.  This large (lage?), nameless discount chain was selling “lage pumpins” by the boxful!  It was our lucky day!

Only after driving away did we come to the conclusion that we should have probably told someone about the sign.  As it was, we simply laughed all the way home — repeatedly chastising each other for not jumping all over that sale and getting our “lage pumpins” while the getting was good.

I don’t know who made that sign.  I don’t know how long it had been up there or how many people had walked by it.  I  don’t know how many large pumpkins had already been sold under the false pseudonym.  I don’t know how many people left the store like we did — laughing like hyenas.  I do know that someone, somewhere was responsible for that sign.  *Snicker*

I have to admit, one of my favorite hobbies is looking for stupid signs, advertisements and headlines.  This one was definitely a find; but, I did feel a little guilty about our behavior.  Everyone makes mistakes.  I’ve made them frequently even though I’m meticulous about proofreading and about requiring everyone who edits my stuff to do the same.   Sometimes they just slip through.  As hard as I try to be perfect, I’m not.  Never will be.

I am still humiliated by some of the mistakes I’ve made in my literary career.  However one mistake really sticks out my mind.  Mostly because it wasn’t a mistake.  It was just gross carelessness on my part.  It was back when I wrote for my high school yearbook.    My adviser selected me to write a tribute for a classmate who had died after a brief but fearless battle with cancer.  Deborah’s death had left my small school reeling with a palpable, excruciating pain.

As I wrote the tribute, I agonized over getting the words just right.  I wanted to capture the very essence of Deborah.  I wanted my classmates to remember her.  I wanted future generations to know how much she meant to our student body.   I wanted her parents to know that their child was valued and loved and missed.  I probably would have accomplished all my goals – had I taken the two minutes to verify the spelling of her last name.  But I didn’t.  When the yearbooks came out, it was wrong.  Twenty years later, I still feel horrible.  

I learned a valuable lesson through that experience about doing my best work.  I learned that sometimes it takes extra effort to do things right instead of just getting things done.  I learned that words that I write have power and that I have a big responsibility as to whether that power will be used for good or evil.   God taught me a huge lesson about lazy writing.  I have never looked at a high school yearbook without thinking about Deborah and her family and my own arrogance and stupidity. 

God-lessons are tough and they hurt but they are always good as they can bring about needed and necessary growth.  Writing and directing Christian drama makes this die-hard type-B person very type-A.   I consider everything I write to be an offering to God and I am therefore less than tolerant of those who mess with said offering.  Usually, I’m a fairly easy going person — as long as I don’t have a production ready to go live and three of my main characters suddenly have scheduling conflicts for a dress rehearsal that they’ve known about for three months.

At that point, my head begins to spin around, I foam at the mouth and instantly transform into Beelzebub’s little sister.  If you don’t believe I can make this sort of transformation, I do have names and email addresses available on request of those who have seen this phenomena in person.   Trust me.  It’s not pretty.

Yes, there comes a point in every script and in every production that I need to let go of my offering.  However, when I do, it had better not lack for ANYTHING because I was lazy or didn’t want to put in the effort get it right.  To me, writing Christian drama is the most intimate form of worship and communion with God imaginable and I never want to give Him anything less than my best.

Matthew 5:15 & 16 says, “Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house.  In the same way, let your light shine before men, that they may see your good deeds and praise your Father in heaven.”

Drama is my way of letting my light shine before men.  Every time I write something I pray that God will use my words to change one person’s life in a lasting and eternal way.  Deborah is also on my mind every time I write.  God never reminds me of that awful mistake.  Instead, I remind myself as a warning against laziness and arrogance.  I don’t want someone’s only glimpse of Jesus Christ to be the drama that I did half-heartedly.   Letting my light shine for Him is a privilege and honor and something I strive to do right — no matter what task I’ve undertaken.

The “lage pumpin” sign was pretty unforgettable.  Jeff and I are still laughing about it and we’ve incorporated the vocabulary into our everyday lives.  “Well, we could order pizza for dinner while we watch the Series.  We have a coupon for a lage pepperoni.”  What a great idea!

One more thing…and this is to the executives at the Fox Network.  I understand that we’re in the eastern time zone and that people on the west coast eat dinner long after we’ve gone to bed.  But could you please, please, PLEASE start the World Series games a little earlier.  I turn into a lage pumpin at midnight! 

By Kiera Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

Today my church, Dunwoody Community Church,  is hosting a day of service.  Different teams from the church are going to serve at a dozen worthy organizations in the community.  They are cleaning and repairing and moving and sorting.  They are helping people they’ve never met and probably will never see again.   They are loving people the way Jesus did — through service.

And where am I?  At home.  Writing my blog.  Why do you ask?

Several times throughout the last few weeks, I have wondered why I hadn’t committed to helping with such an incredible event.  I have several good excuses.  Really, I do.  But the best reason I can come up with is not an excuse.  I honestly think it’s a valid reason.  I don’t think that’s what God wants me to do right now.

Cop out?  Maybe.

In the movie “Michael” — which I think is pretty questionable in content; but, that’s a whole different blog –   John Travolta plays the main character.  He is Michael the Archangel.  At one point in the movie, Michael tells a reporter, ”That’s not my area.”  And refuses in become involved in something that he doesn’t feel he’s supposed to do.

There are an awful lot of things that God put me here to do.  And some things He did not put me here to do.  Over the course of my life, I’ve become more discerning about what, exactly, those things are.

When I first became a Christian, I felt that I must be involved in acts of service every waking moment.  I felt that I had to be completely imersed in community service and participate in every single thing that my church did in order to be a “real” follower of Christ.  That made for some seriously frustrating moments — for a lot of people.

My stint on the welcoming committee at church was stellar proof of this fact.  A church I attended in another state had a wonderful Monday tradition of delivering fresh baked bread to people who were first-time visitors the day before.  I had been extremely touched when a wonderful lady showed up at my door with a loaf of blueberry bread still warm from the oven.  We chatted about the church and the weather and a dozen other topics.  When she left, I felt as though I had made a new friend and I couldn’t wait to go back to church.

So when I became a member, I wanted to be part of that wonderful “warm bread” ministry.   I should have given up when my bread came out of the oven looking like a brick and tasting even worse.  I should have given up when I went to the grocery store, bought bread from the bakery and then warmed it in my own oven.  I should have given up when I went to make my first delivery to a single lady with three lively grade-schoolers.  As the kids clattered around us, I could not think of one solitary thing to say to this lady.  We just simply sat there and looked at each other.  It was extremely uncomfortable for both of us.  Finally, I turned tail and ran for the door.  To nobody’s surprise, this family did not return to our church.

I think I probably delivered a dozen loaves of bread before I finally gave up.  My baking skills improved.  My kibitzing skills did not.  I am a shy person by nature.  Until I get to know someone fairly well, I have to literally force myself to have conversations.  I would undoubtedly be a very happy hermit.  So why did I EVER think that delivering bread to strangers was a good idea?  I’m not really sure.  I learned a valuable lesson.  Calling on people I don’t know is definitely NOT my area.

A dozen families may still be without a church home because I didn’t know enough to stick to what God created me to do.  I try not to let myself play the “What-if” game with that one.  You know, “What if they were planning to start coming to church but my visit changed their mind?  What if they weren’t Christians but really felt drawn to God’s Word but were scared they would run into me again?  What if my bad bread and worse conversation changed the course of someone’s life forever?”

Ok, I know I’m probably stretching there but think about it…people and experiences change lives — for better and for worse.  Did you have a teacher in school who was so bad that it caused you to permenantly hate the  subject they were teaching?   I did.  I had a guy for Science one year that became a teacher because he hated kids.  He never said that but I promise it’s true.   He was a terrible teacher who crushed every ounce of interest that I had for the natural world in just two semesters.  When people don’t do what God created them to do, there are consequences. 

It took me a long time to realize that God created people to bake and deliver bread to complete strangers.  He created people who are natural “friends” who have a gift for putting people around them at ease.    He created teachers and pray-ers and builders and planners and hostesses and organizers.

And God created me.  He gave me creativity.  He gave me ability with the written word.  He gave me an incredible love for kids.  Those are my areas.  When opportunites for service come along now, I try to be discerning.  I try to fit what I do into what I’m good at because I know that is where I will be the most effective for God.

Is it always comfortable?  Nope.  In the course of being creative, I’ve done some things that I hated doing — directing drama springs to mind!  It’s good that I had to do it because God was stretching me and forcing me to rely on Him.  If the situation comes up again, I know that I can do it.  But I also know that there are a lot of people that can do it a lot better because of how God made them to be and how He defined their areas.

I often think about the first family I visited with my warmed-over bread.  I wonder what would have happened if I knew then what I know now.   I probably would have talked to the kids and created a game for us to play.  I would have helped them with their homework, maybe ordered a pizza for dinner and given their frazzled mom a break.  I could have loved on that family.  God gave me such an opportunity to be truly be myself and I missed it. 

So why am I home today and not serving with the rest of the church?  Because it’s not my area.  I promoted the event with posters I created.  I wrote a drama for tomorrow’s church service about short-term mission trips.  Click here  if you would like to read part of the drama!  I also stayed up until 2 AM Thursday morning creating a prop for said drama.  I supported the event by using the gifts God gave me — just like everyone else who used their gifts in their areas.

In a few weeks, there is another service Saturday.  This one has the church helping with a kid’s event at a low-income apartment building.    That opportunity to serve has me extremely excited because there are kids involved.  Definitely my area.  Hmm…I wonder if they want me to bake bread.  

Last weekend, I got clomped pretty hard by the mother of all sinus infections.  For the last three days, I’ve been in bed.  Snug in my jammies, I’ve rested, downed several gallons of water, taken all my medicine, watched an entire season of Project Runway re-runs and been waited on by my wonderful husband.   All in all, it’s been a lovely holiday — if you leave out the part about feeling absolutely putrid. 

Fevers are really wonderful things.   Not only are they the body’s natural defense to infection, they also make for some really wacky, vivid dreams.  For example, I had one dream this morning about getting married.  Yes, I married the same guy — it wasn’t a Brad Pitt fantasy.  All the same people were at our wedding but somehow, we’d ended up hiring a very odd photographer.  In the course of our pre-wedding photos, I kept telling the photographer about people that I wanted to be photographed with.  In her infinite photographer wisdom, she must have decided I had a bad case of ”I’m a nervous bride and I don’t know what I want” syndrome because she kept inserting her own relatives into my wedding pictures, rather than using the relatives God provided for me.   Interesting photo album that would have made…”And this is right before the wedding.  I’m standing next to…um…ya know, I don’t have a clue who these people are!  Sweetheart, is this your Great Uncle Luigi?”

I woke up wishing I could somehow harness and remember those thoughts.  Can you imagine what would happen if I could draw on all that raw creative juice contained in my fever-induced dreams?  I could write masterpieces!  I could write drama that would touch people to their very core.  I could write…wait a minute.  I could write blog entries about weird dreams and relatives that are not my own.  I could write things that made people wish they were safe in bed in their jammies.  Ok, so maybe fever-induced creativity isn’t such a hot idea.  No pun intended.  I think maybe I’ll save my next entry for when I get better.  A lot better.

By Kiera Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

Y’all…don’t you just love that word?   ”Ya’ll — I live in Georgia now.  I can officially say that, ya’ll!  Anyway…ya’ll  have read the story of the Wizard of Oz, right?  In the words of Paul Harvey, “Here is the rest of the story.” Ok so, the Lion, the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, Dorothy, and even that little fuzzball Toto, they left me behind.  I needed to go to Oz more than any of them, but was I invited?  No!  I was not!  How rude!  Why no, I’m not bitter!  Why do you ask?  Anyway, I wanted healing too.  Sure I had a heart, and courage, and a brain.  Kind of.  My problem was that I couldn’t get them all working at the same time.  In fact, my courage went out for sushi one night and just never came back.  But the trip to Oz was just the ticket!  I was so excited.  I had to go!  I knew beyond a doubt that I would find healing in Oz.  And then Poof!  The train to the Yellow Brick Road leaves the station without me.  Again, I feel the need to say, “how rude”! “Well”, I thought, “I’ll just walk”.  Surely there had to be more than one way to get to Oz.  So I set off.  On my own.  No fanfare.  No singing “We’re Off to See the Wizard.”  No winged monkeys, or ruby-red slippers.  Just me, my broken heart, my absent courage, and my mostly vacant brain casing.  I also had an ingrown toenail, but of course that would not be considered good literature.  Which is why, I think, that L. Frank Baum failed to mention me in his story.  Ok, so here I am.  On the road to Oz.  It wasn’t yellow bricks at all.  It was mud and rocks and those little gnats that fly up your nose.  Anyway, I could see someone coming toward me.  It was a man.  Nicely dressed.  Handsome and smiling like perhaps he’d just eaten a very sour lemon.  Whole.  It was like seeing Dick Clark selling used cars at Bubba Joe’s  Pedal and Dash Used Car Pagoda.  Very scary!   But he was very pleasant when he stopped to talk to me.  I told him about my journey to Oz, thinking perhaps that he would join me. Who really needed Dorothy anyway?  I mean, I know she’s the heroine in the story and everything but I could almost hear the stranger and me singing “We’re off to see the Wizard, the wonderful Wizard of Oz.  Because, because, because…”well, you get the idea.   In telling the stranger why I was going to Oz,  I inadvertently mentioned the word healing.  I thought I’d given the poor guy a heart attack.  The stranger twitched and trembled.  He foamed at the mouth before he sprang into action.  “My friend,” he said, “I can give you healing right here right now.”  Then he whipped a Bible out of some unseen storage place.  I was a bit surprised to see the words “Property of Holiday Inn” stamped on the cover, but I couldn’t really ask about it.  I was too busy wiping the flecks of foam off my face.  “Friend, can you feel the power?  Release the demons that bind you.  Can you feel it? I said, CAN YOU FEEL THE POWER?”  He was shouting scripture at the top of his lungs; at least I assume it was scripture.  He was going so fast I really couldn’t understand what he was saying.  But it had a lot of thee’s and thou’s and thou shalt not’s in it.  Oh, and there was this bulging vein on his forehead, that seemed to be pulsing to the rhythm of what looked to be the Hallelujah Chorus.  And then he pushed his nose about a half an inch from my own.  “I SEE THE POWER IN YOUR EYES, FRIEND.  PRAISE GOD YOU ARE HEALED.” I don’t think it was power that he saw in my eyes.  I think it was fear.  Sheer terror, in fact.  The guy was in my face and I had some serious personal space issues.  After pronouncing me healed, he slipped the pilfered Bible back from whence it had come, straightened his tie and said, “Friend, without your financial support ministry cannot continue.”  Then he held his palm out toward me.  I looked into the stranger’s eyes and was a bit taken aback to see visions of dollar signs dancing there.  He spoke again, “Dig deeply into those pockets, friend.  Help me bring the healing power to all our brothers and sisters.”  Reaching into my pocket, I found pocket lint, chapstick, and 23 cents.  I placed my life savings into the stranger’s hand and he snapped it up like a venus flytrap going after a big, juicy fly.  He looked a little disgusted at my meager donation.  Apparently healing costs much more than 23 cents in today’s economy.  He walked away from me, smiling once again, looking to prey on…I mean pray for someone else.  I watched as his form receded in the distance.  Funny, I didn’t feel healed.  Instead I felt as though I had witnessed a true glimpse of Hell.  But he said I was healed.  So I must be.  Right?I almost turned back then.  But the voice of that stupid cowardly lion kept going through my mind, “Gadzooks!  I got a furball!”  What a goon!  If HE could get to Oz, then why oh why couldn’t I?  So on I went, trudging through mud and rocks and those gnats.  Herds and herds of gnats.  As I eased on down the road, I began to see another form coming toward me.  Imagine my surprise when the scarecrow came limping over the horizon.  “Hey!” I said.  “I know who you are.  You’re the scarecrow…you know, from the Wizard of Oz.” “Duh” he said, “Who’d you think I’d be, Albert Einstein?”   I didn’t care much for his `tude but he did tell me all about Oz.  He told me about how his empty head had been filled with brains by the great Wizard himself.  In my mind, I could envision all the wonderful things the scarecrow would do with his newfound knowledge.  You know, noble things like curing cancer and finding a solution for world hunger.  But when I asked him what his plans were, simpleton said, “I’m going to Disneyland!”  What a waste!  It was starting to get dark when I came across a weathered old man feeling his way down the Yellow Brick Road with a white cane.  I didn’t want to scare him so I started talking to him, quite loudly.  “Hey” he yelled back.  “I’m blind, I’m not deaf.  You don’t have to yell!”  I asked him if he had been to see the Wizard.  In my mind, I guess I was thinking that he must not have seen him, or else he would now be able to see.  Then the old man began to tell me a story.  It sounded kind of familiar, but I couldn’t quite place where I had heard it before.  It was about a man named Jesus, who was the greatest healer who ever walked the Earth.  I asked the old man why he didn’t go see this Jesus to get his sight back.  It was then that the old man told me he really didn’t mind not being able to see.  I couldn’t imagine that until he asked me if I had ever smelled a sunset.  Smelled a sunset?  It was then that I wondered if the whole world had begun to take drugs without my knowledge.  He told me how, without his sight, his other senses were so much more keen.  The old man told me how God had used his handicap not to burden his life, but to bless it.  He took great comfort in knowing that he was walking the Earth blindly for the sole purpose of escorting those who could see.  Escorting them not down the Yellow Brick Road but instead, down the path that follows Jesus.  I watched the old man tottering off in the distance and I thought of the gentle words he had spoken.  “Had I ever smelled a sunset?”  Wow!  If I only had a brain!