Katie Funk Wiebe Writing Center dedication talk Oct 21, 2017

Katie at 19

Katie at 19: I’m afraid to be a writer…No one will ever see these things I write.

 

People often asked our mother the same set of questions: How do you find time to write? Where do you get your ideas? How do you handle the flak? How did you come to be a writer, as a Mennonite Brethren woman, anyway? What keeps you going?

So, I’ll answer those questions.

Katie made time to write.

Her ideas grew from her own experiences, big and small. She also told the stories of other women, often those overlooked by history.

About criticism, Katie said, “When I get a harsh letter, I feel like a virtuous persecuted martyr of the early centuries. I lie down and bleed a while…But then I get up again and write some more.”

How did she come to be a writer? Before her, the Funk women didn’t write. Her mother Anna hardly wrote even a scrap of a letter. Yet she read. For example, when Betty Friedan published The Feminine Mystique in 1963, Grandma read and discussed it with Katie. But her dreams for Katie did not include writing. “Writing?” Katie wrote later. “No one wrote for a living.”

At 19, Katie wrote in her journal, “I’m afraid to be a writer…No one will ever see these things I write.”

Growing up in the Mennonite Brethren church she heard “powerful voices calling me to a life of faith.” Yet she also heard a call to the world of the imagination, a call to writing, a call she never heard inside the church.

“To reconcile the two sets of voices – the one to a life of faith in Christ, the other to creative exploration, seemed impossible.”

She met our father, Walter, at the Mennonite Brethren Bible College in Winnipeg, where they worked together on the school newspaper. Sparks flew.

“The first years of our marriage,” she wrote later, “Walter and I spent many hours sorting through what God wanted of us. One day we knelt beside our kitchen table and committed our lives to a literature ministry.”

Almost immediately Walter got a chance to write a newsletter for the Youth Committee of the Canadian Conference of the Mennonite Brethren Church. Katie had a baby; she cooked and sewed, she copied the newsletter on a mimeograph machine, and stuffed the envelopes. When Walter got too busy to do the writing, Katie hauled out her college typewriter. After five years, Katie was writing the whole newsletter.

In 1962, the editor of the Christian Leader, asked Walter if Katie would write a column, “Women in the Church.” The column name later became “Viewpoint” when Katie persuaded her editors that she had something to say to both women and men.  She wrote the column for 30 years.

As she began to publish, she was encouraged by her parents, her husband, and children.  Her mother told her, “…keep on writing and do not let critical strong letters upset you. People on the front have to face it. Sleep over it.”  Katie gained many fans.

Her first widely-read book was Alone: A Widow’s Search for Joy.

In her lifetime, Katie wrote more than two thousand articles, columns and book reviews, and wrote or edited more than two dozen books. In 2011, she began a blog.

As Katie neared 90, though her eyesight was failing, she was working on four books. Three are already out, and soon we’ll see her translation of the book Terror, Faith and Relief: The Famine in Russia, to be published by the Center for Mennonite Brethren Studies.

In 2000 The Mennonite chose her as one of twenty Mennonites with “the most powerful influence on life and belief of the General Conference Mennonite Church in the 20th century, by raising the credibility of Mennonite writing and giving voice to widowhood and women’s concerns.”

When people would ask what kept her going, she often said wryly that it was less agonizing to write than not to write. She believed writing was God’s assignment to her. It wasn’t a hobby, it was a ministry. Writing was the way she explored her faith, by looking at the questions and mysteries of her own life. She got great satisfaction from working with words and ideas.  She loved thinking up her own ways of saying things, not falling back on religious jargon, which she said was one of the worst diseases in modern society.

She also kept writing because she was committed and disciplined. She said, “I have never seen myself as a particularly gifted writer, mostly as a hard worker.” She did not wait until the mood hit her but simply kept on writing even when feeling, in her words, “a terrible dryness”.   

Katie told everyone, “you have a story to tell.” She took great joy in teaching people how to write their own story in an original way so that it would be clear and interesting. “As a writer, you are always open to new insights, new perspectives to an idea, an argument, a way of seeing life, while hanging onto what is basic to faith. You are willing to trim the fat off your thinking and change your mind, if need be.  And I have about many things. The energy in writing comes when you attempt to focus your vision ever more clearly for yourself and others.”

Katie’s family is so pleased that Tabor College is dedicating this writing center where emerging writers can gain confidence, and find their own voice.  Because your stories matter.

 

 

Mennonites Don’t Dance

Despite the fact that Anna Ruth Ediger Baehr danced with her Mennonite father, we all know that Mennonites don’t dance.  Except for . . . Lizbeth, in the eponymous story in Darcie Friesen Hossack’s book MENNONITES DON’T DANCE, a girl who wanted to fall “straight into the real world”, go to a matinee, or at least, “be outside and running”.  But when Lizbeth danced, her world whirled apart, and she lost the rhythm of family life, of Mennonite culture.

Darcie Friesen Hossack is the choreographer for this circle dance of prairie stories about Mennonite families. She incorporates many of life’s big dance steps: loss of innocence, betrayal, forgiveness, redemption, restoration of hope, integrity, joy and love.

The book helped me remember the impact of the words I overheard when a child, the profound changes in me which were wrought by an adult’s seemingly banal action. The life of parents and other adult relatives is so mysterious. A sensitive child is always listening, watching, for some phrase, a tone of voice, or action that will bring meaning, that will illuminate the mystery of why these persons in whom we have trusted behave as humans, and fail, let us down, cruelly hurt us, and then sometimes take us back in their arms with love. A sensitive Mennonite child listens hard, for the clues can be like the dandelion wine a Mennonite mother hides in a concealed room in the cellar, and reveals to her daughter when the time is ripe. Or in another story, like a strip of torn wallpaper that triggers an understanding of how a difficult life was lived.

Jim Bartley of the Toronto Globe and Mail has given a nod to this book as among the “best first fiction of 2011”.  The book is up for some other honors and awards, and it deserves them.  Darcie, I’ll read your next book eagerly.

“Dancing in all its forms cannot be excluded from the curriculum of all noble education; dancing with the feet, with ideas, with words, and, need I add that one must also be able to dance with the pen?” ~Friedrich Nietzsche

Mennonites don’t dance? Darcie Friesen Hossack dances with words. She swings around her point of view, waltzes with suffering and love, does the two-step with dialog and setting.

Alert: If you are an ethnic Russian Mennonite from Canada, don’t read this book on an empty stomach. You will be craving pluma moose, rollkuchen and verenyky. As Darcie has commented, food is almost a character in her stories.

Mennonites Don’t Dance by Darcie Friesen Hossack
Saskatoon, SK: Thistledown Press, 2010; 201 pp.; ISBN: 978-1-897235-78-2; paperback $17.95.

Visit Darcie’s blog whatlooksin or her Facebook page.

Letting go

Snowscape

I came across this poem, “Letting Go”, by my sister Christine Ruth Wiebe. It’s a Christmas poem and I know it’s after the holidays now, but reading the poem triggered some memories I want to share, and I want to share the poem, too.  It’s just a week after I published my book, BIRTH MOTHER.  Now that so many people are reading my book, I am starting to getting used to the idea of other people knowing the intimate details of that earlier time in my life. I just wish so much that I would have had the courage to share the story earlier. With my sister Christine, for example, and my other sister, my brother and my mother. Why did I hide my thoughts and feelings from them about this part of my life?  It was not until my second child’s thirteenth birthday that I told him about his brother — lost to us, out there somewhere in the world. Why didn’t I talk with my friends — my first husband — anyone?   Why did I lock my story up inside for decades?

Keeping a secret from your dearest ones cripples intimacy, and consumes enormous amounts of personal energy.

Christine passed away in 2000 without ever hearing more than the bare outlines of my experience, and the rest of the family also knew very little.  I am very happy, though, that she and the son I gave up for adoption had the chance to get to know one another, because he found me in 1996, when he was 27 years old.

And I am thankful that when my son found me, my heart had been opened and prepared for the reunion. This was thanks to the imagination, vision and encouragement of a special naturopathic doctor and two psychotherapists, retreats at Kripalu Retreat Center and Shalom Retreat Center, intensive journaling, yoga, and my husband’s love.

So here’s Christine’s poem:

LETTING GO

This is how it should be:
Christmas vacation, and I am six;
Daddy and I are driving outside the city
to a great hill with untouched snow.
Sun warms the car.
I climb up the tracks Daddy makes
hearing the crunch each time the first time.
We stand at the top, just Daddy and I, breathing,
and the sparrows laugh.
“I’m afraid,” I say.
But then we’re sailing
and I’m safe on a narrow strip of wood
clinging to his broad back,
a solid thing in a swaying world,
and I’m laughing and wishing
we could fall like this forever
into the sun sparkles and whipping wind
and the white snowdrift
waiting to embrace us
over and over and over.

– Christine Wiebe

September 19, 1985