Christine Schaub

Tuning in Christmas

The Little Drummer Boy is stalking me. I’m not kidding. I turn the car stereo to the all-Christmas station, pah-rum-pah-pum-pum. I walk into Walgreens, pah-rum-pah-pum-pum. Sometimes he taunts me in jazz, sometimes in 1950s boys’ choir, but usually he hits me with a bad pop version. Repeatedly. Right over the head with his little, irritating drumsticks.

There are worse songs for stalking—“Feliz Navidad,” for instance. And I dare you to read that without the melody popping into your head. “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” is fun to hear exactly one time. And don’t get me started on “The Christmas Shoes.”

I love Christmas music. It’s everything I can do to wait until the day after Thanksgiving to load up my CD player and rotate Kenny G, Jim Brickman, Dean Martin, Tony Bennett, and the soundtrack from “Rudolph.” The music makes me want to bake cookies and crush candy canes. I hum all the time. If my house were bigger, I’d probably skip through it.

Currently, I’m hooked on Sarah McLachlan’s recording of “River” (a Joni Mitchell holiday song) and I’m trying desperately to track down an advanced piano duet of “Baby It’s Cold Outside.” Last year, I was all about “White Christmas” and “Mary Did You Know.” Two years ago, it was “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

I love that about Christmas music. Particular songs sneak up on us each year and make us nostalgic, introspective, joyful. It’s like a special treat when we hear them—like the song is being played just for us…just for this moment.

Well, except for the Drummer Boy. May his sticks rest for a good long time, I’m sayin’.

It’s not "Rolling Stone," but…

…my picture’s on the cover of ONEvoice! magazine this month. And no, Dr. Hook fans, I did not “buy five copies for my mother.” She has one issue and she won’t be surrendering it anytime soon.

This was a surreal thing from the day the magazine editor and photographer showed up at my house, to the moment I ripped open the envelope and my copies spilled onto my dining room table. One’s face plastered across a glossy magazine cover is second only to one’s name stamped on a book cover—it all seems like an elaborate and clever spoof.

ONEvoice! is the official magazine of the Church of God-Anderson (Indiana) denomination/movement. I grew up and learned to sing harmony at Edgewood Church of God, a lovely country church in the heart of Michigan farm country. I got a bachelor’s degree from Anderson University, a Christian liberal arts college tied to the Church of God. And my hymnstory series launched on the platform of East Side Church of God in Anderson. The Church of God has provided me with a lot of firsts, so it’s only fitting that my first magazine cover story be with ONEvoice! magazine.

For those of you scratching your heads over this denomination, let me qualify. Think the Gaithers, Sandi Patty, Steven Curtis Chapman. Think a little bit Nazarene…a little bit Baptist…definitely evangelical. Think a collection of small congregations where children give their first performances during offertories, missionaries tell their “scorpion in a shoe” stories, and choirs still sing cantatas. So middle-America, isn’t it?

Although I’m a Presbyterian (PCA) now, I have strong ties to the church that shaped me. Just this summer, my Mom and I sat in an auditorium of Church of God folk and participated in an old-time “hymn sing.” It was overwhelming—the heritage, the poetry, the four…five…six parts ringing across a range of race and age and socioeconomics. Marvelous.

Thank you, ONEvoice!...and thank you, Church of God.

Humming in French

Last month I had coffee with Rob Morgan, author of the Then Sings My Soul series—books of one-page hymnstories and great bedside reads. We spoke in a sort-of research shorthand about our findings, our love of hymns, and our publishing woes. We traded books and went our merry ways, glowing from “hymntalk.” Good times.

Well, I cracked open Rob’s Book 2 last week and discovered something surprising: a number of our most famous Christmas carols are…French! Seriously. So now we owe them for that little Revolutionary War rescue, crème brûlée and December’s musical selections. Check this out:

* “Angels We Have Heard on High” came from the French carol “Les Anges dans nos Campagnes” of the 1700s and was once titled “Harken All! What Holy Singing!” as 19^th-century English translation.

* This shouldn’t be a surprise as “noel” is a French word with Latin roots meaning “birthday”…but “The First Noel” is ancient French poetry.

* Both the words and music of “O Holy Night” were composed by 19^th-century Frenchmen with the original title meaning “Christian Midnight.”

Now, I just returned from Europe, where Christianity is fading fast. Our missionaries to England, France and Scotland hold Sunday services in old and spectacular chapels to congregations of fifteen or twenty…and these are often elderly congregants.

So I’m wondering if you would do something with me. Every time you hear or sing one of those French carols, would you say a prayer for our missionaries who are toiling to reach Europeans this advent season? Such infamous words and music that touch us today can reach back to their origins if we only make the request. Joyeax Noël!

Scottish musings

Tell me if this has happened to you: You return from an adventure and, if not for the photos and diminished bank balance, it’s almost seems like you never left! Can anyone attach a name to this syndrome? Experinesia? Oblivatrip?

My situation is made worse, in that I have so few photos to document my stay. And that would be because of the rain. Constant rain. Sheets of driving, blustering rain. Rain that kept the Scottish countryside lush green and my shoes sloppy wet.

But we did have moments of sunshine and I tried to take advantage of them…like this snapshot of my walk to Glasgow University each morning.

There’s something satisfying about wandering along a pathway of fallen leaves on a college campus. And the mood elevates considerably when the college looks like a flippin’ castle!

Now keep in mind that this site is referred to as the “new” campus on Gilmorehill in the west end. Yeah. New in 1870. The “old” campus—built in 1460—was on 18 acres in what is now downtown Glasgow, and was a study in Gothic antiquity. It was razed when the Railway bought the grounds, and the city has regretted that ill-advised destruction ever since. And this is the campus I spent so much time researching for Book #3 in the Music of the Heart series.

I hope I can make this setting come alive for you as I weave the story of 1860s student George Matheson and the events that inspired his beloved hymn, “O Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go.” It’s a challenge, but I know that if you’re reading my blog, you’re pulling for me. I’ll keep you posted…

"Hiya" from Scotland

You know that movie scene where the single girl is trudging along the sidewalk in pelting rain and her umbrella flips wrong-side out just as a taxi races past and splashes her with slush? That would be me in Glasgow.

Now don't get me wrong--aside from the miserable weather, Glasgow is probably the nicest town in Europe. I mean, within moments of opening a map on the street and glancing around, I'm approached by a Scot asking, "Are ya lost then, luv?" And then I get precise directions to my destination.

This is a university town, very metropolitan, many languages interspersed among the Scottish lilt, with cobblestone streets and brick arches next to swanky stores and the famous underground transportation. It's fascinating and historical, and I love it.

On my third day of research for Book #3 in my series, I finally hit the motherlode of information at the Glasgow University Archives. This is always an exciting moment--when the details start to shape the story that will become your next read. I've filled a notebook with facts I could find only in George Matheson's hometown, and I hope you'll enjoy them next Fall.

Now, back to the Archives before the rain starts up again.

Good Scottish Reads

I met author Liz Curtis Higgs in Nashville over the weekend. If you’ve never encountered Liz, you’ve missed an unmissable opportunity. In fact, take a moment right now to visit her website @ www.LizCurtisHiggs.com and find out when she’ll be speaking somewhere near you. I insist.

Liz is best known for her wicked wit and “Bad Girls of the Bible” series, but she also writes an award-winning series of historical fiction set in 18^th-century Scotland. She confesses an unquenchable thirst for the Scottish countryside, and when she learned I’m traveling to Scotland this week, she squealed in delight.

What is it about Scotland that captivates the mind of the American reader—particularly women? I can only answer for myself, but…

For those of you who’ve been to Europe, you might agree that outside the metropolitan cities there’s a sense of stepping into centuries past. Castle ruins casually dot their bucolic countryside like red wooden barns dot America. It’s a continent of rumbling trains and thick coffee…wool and friendly smiles. Many of us cannot get enough of it.

Historical fiction readers have a particular fondness for Scotland, as proved by Diana Gabaldon’s bestselling “Outlander” series (launched online before picked up by Delacorte), Nigel Tranter’s 60+ novels and, of course, Robert Louis Stevenson’s Kidnapped. And oh…those wonderful Scottish films: “Braveheart,” “Rob Roy” and “Brigadoon.”

As I research my third book set in 19^th-century Glasgow, I’ll be finding those Scottish elements that tickle your fancy on the page. Get ready for some Gaelic and brogue, my friends! I write to you next from the heart of Scotland…

Crossing the pond

Ask me what I’m doing for Thanksgiving. Go ahead…I’ll wait.

Hey, thanks for asking! I’m taking a four-hour train trip into the Scottish Highlands to celebrate this entirely American holiday with American missionaries, Bill & Dana Evans, and their collective brood. Is that cool, or what?

Now I’m not in the habit of traveling overseas for American holidays. But when the opportunity for creating a fantastic memory presents itself, I go for it. This is how the “opportunity” panned out…

I began planning a trip to Glasgow, Scotland to do the heavy research on my third book in the Music of the Heart series—the story behind George Matheson and his Scottish hymn, “O Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go.” The more I investigated flights, hotels, etc, the more I realized the best time to travel would be over Thanksgiving. But that presented a holiday dilemma, as November 23 is just another work/school day in Scotland. What to do…what to do…

Welp, my Nashville church is connected to the Evans in Scotland and suggested I contact them for information about other Americans in Glasgow. The Evans responded, “We don’t know anybody in Glasgow, but you’re certainly welcome to have Thanksgiving with us. We’re about a four-hour train ride into the Highlands, but…” And I stopped reading there. Four hours on a train, gazing out the window at the dreamy, bucolic, Scottish countryside? Um…YE-AH! And if it snows anywhere along the route, my final Thanksgiving prayer will be answered.

So my next few columns will focus on this Scotland trip and what I discover in Edinburgh, Glasgow, and a Highland town called “Nairn.” And, hopefully, when you read my new book next fall, you’ll feel like you’ve already been there.

Never say never

I ordered meatloaf for lunch yesterday and smiled inside. I remember many, many meatloaf meals on the Michigan farm, and chili, and goulash, and hearty vegetable soup…and an internal promise that I would never—never—eat those things again when I left for college. But, of course, those are exactly the comfort foods I crave on chilly, overcast days. I ate my loaf with pleasure.

And then I started thinking of other things I swore I’d never do—live in the South, teach piano, work with children, say “y’all,” use just half a bag of morsels (like my mother) in a batch of chocolate chip cookies.

But guess what?

I made a batch of cookies with the whole bag, and it was too much—too chocolately, too chippy, and not enough dough. I say “y’all” because it’s fast and easy…and I live in the South. I teach piano to children…and they’re the highlight of my week.

So what else had I sworn off? Oh, right. I was never going to be a novelist. I’m a trained journalist and copywriter, and short story writer at best. I’m a screenwriter who dabbles in sketch comedy and limericks and the occasional “Ode to the Turtleneck” (or Boxer Brief). Under no circumstances did I think I had enough to say—or could remain serious long enough—for a novel.

But guess what?

God has a wicked sense of humor. I imagine he sits around, waiting for me to make such a proclamation, then gathers some angels and says, “Watch this.” And then I get zapped for a novel. No—not “a” novel, but a string of novels! That require months of research! On the days I’m not teaching piano to southern children while saying “y’all”!

*sigh* Tonight, I’m gonna order the chili.

Fictional marriage

I get a lot of letters and emails from my readers—sometimes to ask a burning question, sometimes to tell me how a particular character or situation or piece of dialogue impacted them.

But one of my favorite comments/questions comes from readers who know something about me…something that astonishes them when they read my books on relationships. They know I’m single.

I once read that a successful marriage depends on two things: (1) finding the right person and (2) being the right person. I have been in both situations, but not together. I have loved and been loved—even to the point of engagement…but I’ve never married. So how…how—my readers ask—could you possibly provide so much insight on something you’ve never personally experienced?

The short answer is: married people talk. They tell me that marriage is one of the hardest things a person can do in life. They say it is rife with power struggles, irritations, and crushing disappointment. But they also tout the inestimable bonuses of a lifelong partner—waking up with the person who really knows you best, talking over the ins and outs of every day, gripping a steady hand in moments of crisis, laughing in bed.

Husbands and wives talk, I remember their stories and words of wisdom, and then you read the product of those conversations in my works of fiction. For while my main characters are real, I can only fictionalize their relationships, weaving supposed conversations and internal monologue around the recorded facts of their lives.

So keep talking, my married friends. Your insight makes a good read.

Jan Karon got it right

I venture into all kinds of locales while promoting my books—big cities, university burgs, cow towns…and it’s the latter I most enjoy. Probably because I grew up in one.

It’s a 10-hour drive, one-way, to my hometown of Ithaca, Michigan, population 3,000. When I announce the trip, I often get the raised eyebrow and “Why don’t you just fly up there?” Welp, I would…if I could figure out how to get a cooler full of fresh-picked blueberries into the overhead bin. The commute necessitates a book or two on tape, and recently I maintained driving sanity while listening to Jan Karon’s first novel in her series, At Home in Mitford.

If you’re familiar with the Mitford series, you know these books are about nothing—not salacious murders or torrid affairs, not terrorism or government intrigue, not environmental disaster or secret societies. Rather, Karon has made bestsellers out of small happenings in a small town with ordinary people.

Suppress that yawn.

I’m certain publishers everywhere are scratching their heads, trying to figure out the million-dollar attraction for G-rated stories about an Episcopalian priest—a priest!—and his neighbors/parishioners in a tiny, east-coast mountain town. I can save them the scratching time and explain it here: many of us grew up in Mitford. We might have called it Walton’s Mountain or Happy Days’ Milwaukee or Ithaca, Michigan…and now we long for the simplicity of that time—the coffee shop gatherings, the parish teas, the neighbor who was eccentric simply because she dressed in her late-brother’s clothes.

My third novel is an attempt to create such a read. Set in 1860s Glasgow, the plot centers on a young Scotsman who will experience personal loss—but not from something as dramatic as a fire or a shipwreck or a death—in his G-rated life and convert that loss into a poem that became the hymn “O Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go.” It’s a small story and, therefore, much more challenging to write.

So I hope you’ll stick with me Fall 2007 as I present this story. And I hope you’ll appreciate the next small town you pass through. It may look like nothing happens there, but I assure you—good, big and small things do.