Living the Unoffended Life
The Unoffended Life “The unoffended life is the best way to live.” What is the unoffendable life? It’s the mark of a person who doesn’t easily get bent out of shape. They don’t carry a chip on his or her shoulder. They let offenses roll off their back and choose to overlook slights, real or perceived. In the rest of this blog, I’ll use the masculine pronoun “he” for clarity, but this asset applies equally to men and women. The unoffended person chooses not to hold grudges. He understands, “If you like people, people will like you.” He realizes that relationships always trump harsh words. The unoffended man is good-natured. Webster’s describes Good-natured as “having a pleasant disposition and displaying an easygoing manner, especially in social situations.” The unoffended man oozes Graciousness. Listen to Paul’s words in Colossians 4:6: Let your speech always be gracious, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how you ought to answer each person. You ask, “What is the definition of graciousness?” I’m unsure, but you’ll know when you see it. My father, Clayton Iles, who lived from 1934 to 2003, was a gracious and unoffended man. I keep returning to my Daddy because he was so remarkable and still lives through my writing as well as four generations of Iles’s. He had all the traits of an unoffended man: self-effacing, humorous, forgiving, and unerring in his belief in seeing the best in others. Above all, Daddy was comfortable in his own skin wherever he went. He would’ve been as relaxed and winsome in the Oval Office as he was at the Dry Creek Community Catfish Lunch. In either venue, if asked, he would’ve burst out in his favorite song (and mine as well), “The Wayfaring Stranger:” “I am just going over Jordan. I am just going over home.” Let me be clear: Clayton Iles wasn’t perfect, but he was consistent. My father at home was no different than the public man. I can honestly say that when Daddy died, he did not have one single enemy. That says a lot. The unoffended man doesn’t fly off the handle. To become an unoffended person takes practice. It’s a habit like any other. I’m still working on it. I have a ways to go. One way I’m learning to be unoffended is the part of writing I detest. Rejection letters. It’s part of the life of a professional writer. Rejection letters. You’ll have a stack of them if you’re sending out proposals. I’ve learned not to take it personally. To accept it with graciousness. Send a note to the editor. Trying to glean anything from them and their rejection that can teach me. You have no friends. You have no enemies. You only have teachers. Additionally, I’m learning to accept life’s setbacks and difficulties with a smile, “Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ll just put it in the next book.” How you look at something goes a long way toward being unflappable and unoffendable. The confident, unoffended man doesn’t have to get in the last word. Sometimes, he chooses to bite off his tongue. He knows that sometimes, the best answer to ignorance is silence. Because silence can speak volumes. Living an unoffended life is not a sign of weakness. It doesn’t entail being run over, pushed around, or exploited. It is a sign of inner strength and peace. The unoffended man knows there are hills to die on. There’s a time and place to dig in and take a stand. But he understands these battles are far and few between, so he chooses his battles carefully. There’s no chip on his shoulder. He attempts to cut people slack, remembering that folks often act a certain way because they have a rock in their shoe. He chooses his reactions to people and events. When confronted with road rage, he’ll give a sad shrug followed by, “I bet he’s hell to live with,” or an equally strong, “I’d hate to be married to her.” Richard Carlson’s excellent book Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff speaks of this concept of being unoffendable. Take note of the full title: Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff (and It’s All Small Stuff). The unoffendable person overlooks the small irritations of life. I close with several lines from my favorite Jerry Jeff Walker song, “The Stranger.” “He was the kind who′d pay no mind When he was bumped into. He was the kind that let you find out All that he knew. He never got uptight, never started a fight, Never threw so much as a dart. He was a man after my own heart. And I loved him. I loved him true.” (Lyrics by Jerry Merrick)
Blog 1500: The Cardinal and Mr. Smith’s Plane
Today’s Creekbank Blog Post is number 1500 in a long string of blog posts stretching back to June 2006. You can trace them all back by scrolling our blog posts at www.creekbank.net After you read “The Cardinal and Mr. Smith’s Plane,” we believe you’ll enjoy this story on YouTube as well as our Audio Podcast. The Cardinal and Mr. Smith’s Plane The bird crashed into the plate glass window. My friend and I approached where a red cardinal lay on the grass. She said, “It’s dead.” “Let’s watch for a while. I’ve seen birds knocked silly from a collision get up, wobble around, and fly off.” We waited for several minutes. It was evident this cardinal’s flying days were over. He was D.O.A. Dead on Arrival. I took the bird home, and my young granddaughter joined me for a backyard bird funeral. Don’t laugh. I’ve officiated at many animal funerals, especially dog funerals. As I recall, I cried at most of them. Pondering the cardinal’s sudden death, I thought about this: he wasn’t eaten by a cat, starved to death during a harsh winter, or wasted away by disease. Mr. Cardinal died doing what he loved best: flying. * * * Then, I recalled the story of James Smith, Jr. and his flight over Dry Creek. In early December 2000, Jim Smith took off from an Austin, Texas, area airport, bound for Gainesville, Florida. He was flying to the manufacturer’s plant of his Team Tango experimental plane. Mr. Smith, an experienced pilot, had retired from the military and later from school teaching. At age 73, he still enjoyed flying and adventure. I’m sure he was proud of his plane. Flying solo across the South. Man, it sounds great. The wind in his hair. A contented smile on his face passed over the vast pine forests that cover Southwest Louisiana. Then, something happened as he flew over my hometown of Dry Creek. Folks heard the plane’s engine sputtering as it came over low in the clouds. A loud crash in Bundick Swamp followed this. The next day, searchers found Mr. Smith’s body and his plane in Bundick Creek. * * * A few days later, I hiked to the crash site. The fuselage was buried in the creek, but there were no broken limbs along the bank. Evidently, the plane had plummeted straight down. Bundick Creek is a very special stream in my life. It’s where I learned to swim and was the site of baptisms during my childhood. My Dad and I set trot lines along it, and it was always a good spot to crawl up on wood ducks. As I sat on that Bundick sandbar looking at the wreckage of his plane, I wondered about this man named Jim Smith, whose life ended near the community I love. I never met him, but I know I would’ve liked him, and I believe he would’ve liked a place called Dry Creek. In the end, James A. Smith, Jr. was a man who lived life to the fullest, even to the end. He was doing exactly what he loved best- flying. There are all kinds of ways to die at 73. Most of them involve a slow decline in health. That slow creeping death never touched Mr. Smith. His life didn’t end in a nursing home or in hospice. The chances are slim that we’ll live and die doing what we were born to do. Mr. Smith did, and so did the red cardinal. Flying. Doing what they loved. Two life lessons on doing what you love. Mr. Smith did, and so did the red cardinal. They were flying. Doing what they loved. Two life lessons. A plane flying low over Bundick Swamp in Dry Creek, Louisiana. A red cardinal buried in my backyard.
Putting my friends, Noah and Maggie, to bed . . . for now
We are putting Where We All Belong for a rest. Sea Change: A NOTE TO MY READING FRIENDS Because of your encouragement and investment, I wanted you to hear this from me: After nearly two years of researching, writing, and editing, I am putting aside my historical fiction novel, Where We All Belong, for now. I’ve carefully put Maggie, Noah, Pieter, and Emma to bed, tucked them in, and kissed them on the forehead as I turned out the light gently closed the door. Why am I making this change? I feel led to return to where I started: writing/sharing short stories that connect with readers’ hearts. Here’s why I’m making this sea-change decision: For the past three months, I’ve been overwhelmed (with joy) by readers’ reactions to my short stories. Whether they visit our Website, Blog, MailChimp E-letter, Facebook, Beauregard Electric Column, YouTube, or Podcast, my readers clearly say, ”We love your short stories from the heart, and we want more.” I’m gratefully humble for the confirmation God has given me that this is the direction I should go. I have complete peace about this. What about a novel called Where We All Belong? How do you put down a 130,000-word manuscript into which you’ve poured two years of toil? You close it carefully and with love and respect. Have two years of writing Where We All Belong been a waste? Of course not. I’ve learned much about World War II POWs in Louisiana, the home front in wartime Louisiana, rice farming, and a wonderful German community named Mowata. Most of all, I’ve learned so much more about myself. I’m a better writer and person for picking up the pen to write the novel Where We All Belong. I’m grateful for your part in moving this book along. Hopefully, we’ll see it again, just not now. I’m writing, gathering, editing, and dreaming as I sort through new short stories. At the moment, I have nearly 100 strong candidates for our following short story collection. They won’t all make it, but I feel very good about what we have. I’m currently calling this new book, “Pineywoods Stories.” I’ll ask you for title suggestions and input as we move along. Above all, pray that my writing will glorify God and be used to impact, influence, and encourage others. Writing for a reason, Curt SCI
The Key Sentences in ‘Where We All Belong’
Friends and Readers, We’re putting the final touches on our upcoming novel, Where We All Belong. Don’t give up on us. There are many moving parts in getting a book into your hands. I really believe the final product will be worth the wait. Remember, it takes a village to raise a book and you’re a part of the Creekbank Tribe. Here are the key sentences peppered throughout the book. I’d love your questions and feedback. Growing, Curt Iles Key Sentences in WWAB: As of SAT 2 DEC The first five minutes in captivity determines where a prisoner of war lives or dies. “Let’s roll up our sleeves and get to arbeiten. work “Don’t forget. These people are our enemy.” He’s a tall oak in a field of weeds. All my life you have been faithful. I made a promise I intend to keep Just because it’s so, doesn’t make it right. My prayer: “I hope in my lifetime . . .” We will be friends and never again be enemies. I wish only the best for you when this terrible war is over. Fraulein, I wish for you a happy life. I really do
Early Chapters on ‘Where We All Belong’
Where We All Belong Curt Iles I. THE JOURNEY _____________________ CHAPTER 1 CAPTURED “A prisoner of war is someone who was trying to kill you, but then asks you not to kill him.” —Winston Churchill 13 May 1943 Tunisia, North Africa “The first five minutes of a POW’s captivity determines whether he lives or dies.” German Wehrmacht Korporal Noah Becker stood in the North African sun surrounded by a half circle of grim-faced American soldiers. Slowly lowering his weapon to the ground, he raised his hands as he was prodded along with five other prisoners. Noah limped due to grenade shrapnel in his left leg. The grenade had killed two of his comrades and wounded the others. He was the only one who could walk. An officer approached the American GIs, giving a series of commands in English. A tall, sunburned GI motioned to them, “Move, Jerry,” as they were marched behind a nearby sand dune. Noah knew the fear of death, but this was different. He was no longer a soldier but a prisoner of war. Killing him would not result in any great victory for the Allies. As Noah awaited his fate, another squad of GIs approached. The two groups had a heated discussion. Finally, the tall GI waved to the prisoners, and they joined a long line of Afrika Korps POWs filing into a large, barbed-wire cage. Noah was relieved at being spared but had no idea what awaited him. One thing he knew for sure: The War was over for him. CHAPTER 2 RIGHTEOUS INDIGNATION May 1943 Sisters Emma and Maggie Loewer stood on the depot platform in Crowley, Louisiana, waiting for the afternoon train. They were there to pick up a thresher part for their family’s rice farm. The passenger train arrived, screeching to a halt, and the sisters walked to the freight car. This New Orleans-bound train was scheduled for a thirty-minute stop, just enough time for passengers to stretch, smoke, or grab a bite to eat. A passenger door opened, and five laughing GIs, dressed in crisp uniforms, stepped off the train. Maggie whispered. “I’ve never seen Colored soldiers before.” “Me neither.” The GIs walked to a nearby cafe, stopping in front of a sign over the entrance: Whites Only. Maggie and Emma were close enough to gauge their reaction. The largest soldier, obviously the leader, took one last drag on his cigarette, stubbing it out on the sidewalk. “We’re on our way to fight a war for our country, and we’re still not welcome in an American café.”
Upcoming: Where We All Belong
Readers, Many of you are curious about our upcoming novel, Where We All Belong. We are currently putting the finishing touches on this 94,000-word novel. (that translates to about 370 pages.) We are in the most challenging phase of publishing a book: finding an editor/publishing house. I’d appreciate your prayer that God will open doors and Where We All Belong will find the right home. Here are the current details: One Word: Belonging One Sentence: A German POW comes to Louisiana during World War II and discovers love and friendship. Three-Paragraph Synopsis: Noah Becker is a member of the German Afrika Korps captured in North Africa in 1943. His arduous journey across the Atlantic and America ends in a small Louisiana POW camp. Due to the severe manpower shortage, Noah and his fellow POWs are sent to work on local farms, and it is there where Noah meets Maggie Loewer. Maggie is an older teenager on a hard-working family rice farm in Mowata, Louisiana. Her family is German-American, and Maggie must fight through the prejudices, challenges, and difficulties of the American homefront during World War II. During the 1944 rice harvest, Maggie and Noah’s lives collide, and the sparks fly. ___________________________________ As always, your questions and ideas help me as I write. A book is always the result of so many people working together. Your feedback is valued! Curt Iles Dry Creek/Alexandria, LA curt@creekbank.net
