Christa Black

When you arrive in Sydney, Australia only to turn on the telly and see what looks like the beginning of an apocalypse movie—watching footage from Dallas, Texas as Ebola victims are plastered all over the world news—you take a long, deep breath when you think about the fact that you just VICTORIA EBOLA EQUIPMENTflew out of Dallas, Texas with your family.
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I feel like I’ve reached the first plateau in a series of scaling mountains.  And this mountain range that I’m currently climbing is the unfortunate range called Grief.

Screen Shot 2014-10-05 at 10.15.15 PMHitting the 7 month mark since Goldie died feels like an accomplishment, like I survived the steepest, darkest, most dangerous part of the climb to somehow find myself able to take a rest on a sunlit, flat meadow surrounded by the safety of trees.  I can breathe in this place.  I can sleep here.  I can regain my energy for the rest of the climb—the climb that I will make for the rest of my life.
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I sat down with a friend last week for coffee to answer a question that I’m asked pretty often, “How do I become a writer and publish my book?”

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And while I need to start the podcast I’ve been meaning to start for some time, sitting down across from someone to help coach them practically into the writing process while you listen in—today, I want to clue you in on the last, and most important part of our conversation—leaving you with the final words I gave my friend.
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I would be lying if this question wasn’t a bit annoying.   Where do we belong?  Where do we plant roots?  Where are our ‘people?’

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Okay, okay—you got me.  It’s not a bit annoying.  It’s REALLY annoying.  Especially since we have SO MANY people who we adore—places we can plant roots—-cities and churches and movements that we can TOTALLY make work.
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After turning in my next book proposal to my literary agent a few weeks ago to pitch to publishers, in a meeting with my agent yesterday, she said unexpected words that I hadn’t expected to hear:

Rejection Just Ahead Green Road Sign with Dramatic Storm Clouds and Sky.“So, two publishing companies have passed on your book, because they’ve already acquired books with similar subjects.”

And as the words came from her lips, and twisted into my ears, all I heard her saying was, “Your daughters death, life, and how she’s teaching you to thrive inside of pain isn’t important enough to publish for people to read.”

Every day since Goldie died in my arms on March 5 of this year, I’ve been wrapped safely inside the most fluffy, tangible, perfect down Comforter named the Holy Spirit.
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Yesterday morning as I was sandwiched in between an 18-wheeler and a concrete wall while curving 60 mph through construction in Dallas, Texas, my heart rate was anything but normal.

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You have to understand, I’m not a naturally fearful person, but there’s just something unsettling about high speeds in between large objects—especially objects that when crashed into, could possibly kill you.
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Heeeeeeey friend! It's 2012.
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