Rock Writers’ Guild

Hello, again! I really had a wonderful time Sunday as we all met together. There are inspiring and beautiful things coming out of each of you and I feel so honored to be allowed to read the intimacy of your hearts. Thank you for that privilege!

This month I am pushing you a little more than usual. I have been reading a very challenging book - “Radical Reformission” by Mark Driscoll. He is the pastor of Mars Hill church in Seattle, WA. Seattle is probably the closest example of what Paul encountered as he preached to the Athinians on Mars Hill. (Acts 17:16-34) Driscoll writes,

“As Paul first entered Athens, he was burdened by the great need of a people who had unparalleled philosophy, literature, architecture, art, and education but did not have Jesus.”

“Today, this generation believes in God and speaks to Him but they have no idea who he is. While some Christians lament the condition of our spiritual but post-Christian nation, we must see our day as a great opportunity for the gospel, not unlike Paul’s day on Mars Hill. But numerous errors in Christian theology restrain us from going to Mars Hill, seeing any idols, talking to any pagans, or quoting any godless songwriters, who are unknowingly dancing around the truth of the time.”

Part One: This month we are going to do a little cultural research for our assignment. I want everyone to watch something on television that would not normally allow yourself to watch. You may have to watch several different programs - but the point is to gather some information about what people are talking about. What are the issues that people are facing in their lives and what are their approaches as they grapple with these issues? You will certainly find them “unknowingly dancing around the truth of the time.”

From the programs you have viewed, select a topic that you believe the church needs to address in a culturally relevant but biblically sound way. The answer you find in the Word will be very different than the answer that Hollywood writers and producers have to offer. Please be careful and allow Holy Spirit to direct you during this assignment. Don’t get hooked on bad television - this is an experiment for the purpose of your assignment and I do not want you to watch anything that is so morally reprehensible that you grieve Holy Spirit. This needs to be in non-fiction, editorial format and 750-1000 words. I want everyone to submit this assignment to a publication for consideration. (on-line or print publications) Which leads me to part two of the assignment…

Part Two: Pick 5 publications that you would be interested in submitting articles to. Record the name of the publication, frequency of the publication, the name of the editor, mailing and e-mail addresses, phone and fax numbers, and any other additional information you find useful. Then, contact the publication via phone or e-mail to obtain writer’s guidelines. Most publications also have all of this information on their websites as well. Start a folder to keep all of this information which will come in handy when you submit your assignment article at the end of the month! Check out this website to find information about publications and their requirements - http://www.powerpenmarketsearch.com/

Please post the writing portion of the assignment on the web by Sunday, August 20th. Our next meeting will be Sunday, August 27th at 4:30 in the conference room! Please let me know if you have any questions!

“Lord, I need to get away.  Please help me find a spot alone.”

The warm ocean breeze blew softly as the waves pounded the shore.  The sounds of the surf continued to echo as the noise of others faded in the distance. Finally, after a long walk, I found myself alone.

I flung the towel on the sand in a halfway manner before collapsing face down.  Hot tears flowed as the fears for my marriage, and my kids attacked in full force.

“Father, so many things are wrong in my life.  Tom seems so distant in his looks and touch.  Both kids are angry all the time, and I don’t blame them.  All we ever do is fight.  Lord, I can’t take anymore.   What am I suppose to do now?” 

No answers came with only the waves roaring in the background.

Later, I finally turned to look out over the wonder of the ocean.  The waves continually rushed in and raced back out, repeating the age-old ritual. Within minutes, several mounds of sand caught my attention.   Uniquely formed by the bucket of a child at play earlier, they stood like soldiers guarding the beach.

Soon the tide turned and the waves again inched forward, slowly reclaiming their rightful place as ruler of the beach.  Each surge closed ranks on the beach sentinels.  The battle would be swift and lethal, but a sure victory for the salty ruler.

“Imagine for a moment these mounds are the issues in your life,” the Lord prompted my spirit.  Allowing my imagination to run wild, each sentry suddenly became a symbol of my problems.  My home, family, work and even church stood at attention on the shifting sands.

‘General Tom’ the commander-in-chief, stood tall and proud, guarding the shore demanding the honor of his rank. He carried the burden of not only our marriage, but the entire welfare of my little family.  What would we do? Where could we go from here?  Our love and marriage were in dire need of a morale boost.

By his side, I stood, Lieutenant Colonel.  The wind distorted the soldier’s original form, warping it much like my weary spirit.  A small smile and chuckle escaped at the absurdity of my thoughts.  Nevertheless, I quickly returned to my gaze to the guardians of the beach.

Master Sergeant Cindy defiantly stood in formation.  A good kid, but a typical teenage struggling to discover her place in this world.  Her barricade stood erect preventing passage by those who loved her, especially the Lord.  At one time, she was on fire for Him, but the strain in our family had pushed her away.

Next in line and rank stood Private Benjamin, not quite a teenager, but no longer my little boy.  He had shied away from the constant conflicts, spending more time in his room.   Even now, my heart ached for the obvious misery each soldier felt.  I looked at each remaining form and meditated on issue at hand.

“Lord, I am sick and tired of the enemy having reign in our lives.  It makes me so angry and he seems to be winning.  My home should be a safe haven from the world, not this war zone. This is not right Father, I ask you to do a deep work within each of us.  Please help us.  Begin with me, Lord,” sobs flowed again.

Quickly, a flood of images and memories came.

“Father, forgive me.  I am just as selfish and stubborn as I accuse them of being. I reacted in pride and demanded my own way. Cleanse my heart and spirit. Teach me how to walk in Your ways. Lord, help me.” 

Lost in my memories, I repented of each event as the Lord revealed them.  Later, I looked at the sand soldiers; they had lost their battle in the rolling tide. 

“Just as the waves washed away the images of your imaginary sentries, allow My peace to wash away your fears. Let me be God in your life.  Nothing is impossible but you must trust Me.”

A soft smile grew as I listened closely to the prompting of the Lord.

“Yes, Lord. Teach me to wait on You.”

As His peace settled the sands of my fears, I quickly leapt up and worked my way down the beach.  For the first time in a very long time, I was anxious to get home.  There were no miraculous changes in these few hours.  Well maybe just one … me.

I am constantly amazed to find
in people I have most admired
for their serenity and joyful peace
the mark of a tragic, intolerable grief.
Outwardly their friendly faces shine,
and they process serenely over life
as a clipper over choppy seas,
taking the ups and downs at ease,
patiently enduring fortune’s whims.
Somehow the pain doesn’t scuttle them.
For some their scars remember a day
when half their life was ripped away,
miraculously missing anything vital,
or perhaps not.  Others’ scars tell
of a burden carried far and well
but cutting the bearer like broken shell
and no relief in sight.  What heals
these terrible weals intolerably inflicted?
How does the survivor ever suplant the victim?
I can sympathise with those who turn
to drink or drug, or who form
an impenetrable shell about their hidden shame-
the tender, constant imprint of their pain-
but how to explain the ones that ease
like sunlight over the waters, turning
wound to fuel, or else to ballast, balancing
their keel in ugly seas?  They brace the breeze
eagerly, full sails spread above their grief,
seemingly steadied by the weight within.
The man of peace was such a one,
striding across Galilee to join
the world and people he had borne,
which God’s word birthed through him.
How he loved them! But the race reserved
as his since the foundations formed,
suddenly, terribly, turned away,
became blighted, killed, went feral, savagely
wrecking all he loved, all he had made.
What could he fear after such pain?
What grief weighs against total disaster?
No wonder he could balance on the water.
Seeing the sum of love destroyed will either slay
or give a supernatural power to stay
through anything.  Having borne
pain the joy we find is not easily torn.
Once, in darkness, we learn again to sing,
even death cannot strip our wings. 

Disclaimers have been outlawed!  Too bad.  A disclaimer is like modesty- the hesitation before unveiling the soul.  It’s a moment of separation, reminding myself that judgement will be of the work and not of me.  The disclaimer is not so much an insecurity about the quality of the work as an insecurity about the people it is being shown to.  I have little need for disclaimers with my husband.  Sometimes I tell him things about what I’ve written before I read it to him, but we both know that I am setting the stage, drawing back the curtains, lighting the candles before the meal… not hiding behind my hands.  Sometimes a disclaimer is like the tag that says, “Made by Hand,” on a gift.  It says, “This thing that I have made is precious to me.  I am a little afraid to show it to you.  I don’t quite know if it will suit you, but I hope that it will.  Speak softly, you are in the prescence of my heart.”  A disclaimer is dipping your toe in before jumping into the pool.  A disclaimer is humilty, not presuming to think that everyone will like what you’ve done.  A disclaimer is also uncertainty- not knowing if you like what you’ve done!  When a Shakespearian play ends, the last actor on stage comes out and submits a disclaimer in blank verse with a final rhyming couplet.  Even violets are shyly hesitant of their welcome and hang their heads.
     There are honest disclaimers and less honest.  Sometimes we are unable to appreciate the quality of our own work until we come upon it by suprise several days later.  Sometimes we have accidentally unveiled more than we meant to and struggle with shame.  Other times we are practicing the artifice of deflecting criticism by criticising ourselves, on the theory that no one would beat a whipped dog. 
     All of us are trying new things in this class.  We are uncovering private places, secret dreams.  We are facing our fears of criticism, of failure, of insufficiency, of foolishness, of pride…  You can’t judge the difficulty of someone’s writing process by the quality of what they produce.  We are all stretching ourselves to the point of pain.  I watch Melanie Haulman lay on the floor and drop her head on her knee as she stretches.  I can barely bend over my leg.  She produces much more grace, much more stretch, but we are both feeling the same amount of pain as we work to increase our capacity.  If I wrote only what I was comfortable with, I would have no need of a disclaimer.
     Perhaps what we need is not less disclaimers, but a more honest language in them.  Instead of saying, “Oh, this isn’t going to be near as good as yours,” perhaps we need to say, “Writing this really frightened me.  It brought back a lot of pain,” or “This seems really foolish to me.  I couldn’t think of anything deep.”

That said, let me quote a small section from a book I’m reading.  It’s “Pilgrim’s Inn,” by Elizabeth Goudge, and this section is spoken by a great artist to a younger man he’s teaching.

     “You were perhaps right, just then, to turn your board round.  But, generally speaking, don’t do that.  Don’t hide your work.  What you have done you have done and you must take the consequences.”
     “I hate people seeing my stuff,” murmurred Ben.
     “Afraid of being laughed at?  Well, what of it!  Never hide from adverse criticism.  Mockery, indifference, misunderstanding- welcome the lot.  Criticism of your work is much the same as criticism of yourself, you know, your work being an extension of yourself, and there’s nothing like good slashing personal criticism for begetting humility.  A conceited man never yet made a good artist.  How could he?  Satisfied, you stick where you are.”

OK, Lisa. You’ve inspired me. Following are two poems I posted on my blog which almost noone has ever read because I don’t tell anyone about my blog. So, here goes…I’m feeling naked already.

———————————————

My heart overflows with passion and revelation…yet, it’s illumination remains concealed, failing to fulfill the commission of influence;

My mind craves knowledge and feverishly pursues understanding…yet, it is fundamentally deficient of wisdom and discretion;

My will is, by all evidence, unyielding and tenacious…yet, at it’s core, it is unbearably feeble;

My spirit serves joyfully and tirelessly without concern for recognition…yet, my ego silently and veraciously hungers for admiration and promotion;

This is my Foolish Notion: The source of my strength is built upon the substance of my weaknesses. My Father inexplicably and incessantly loves me. In trusting without uncertainty that He designed me perfectly and completely for His pleasure - I am not a mere recipient of His mercy, but His expression, of His glory, for His purpose. I will forever be humbled and honored to be a foolish and weak thing redeemed for His passion.

If I had no voice to proclaim Your greatness,
Every cell of my being would declare the awesomeness of Your creative power.

If I had no legs to dance in passionate expression,
My spirit would yet whirl in ardent praise in the presence of Your Holiness.

If I had no hands to lift in surrender to You,
My heart would, in an instant, relinquish it’s rhythm upon Your entreat.

If I lacked senses to see, hear, touch or smell,
Your existence would still be unmistakable, undeniable…irresistible.

The insufficiency of my faculties, therefore, is of little consequence.
What is physical is mere illusion, what is spirit is the true reality.
My sole possession, my will, considers both and reckons between the two.

As I pursue Your Spirit, embracing Truth, worshiping what is unmistakable…I am increasingly in awe of what I can not see, but, yet can not ignore. And, I’m forever humbled by the revelation that You, a Being so infinite and complete, find me as I find You….irresistable.

Why didn’t I just say no? The production was paying too little money for too much work, and the weather man was promising temperatures in the nineties. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he also forcasted thunder showers in the afternoon. It is hard enough to do movie hair in a big white tent, outdoors but hairstyles from the 1960s just don’t hold up well in the humidity and rain no matter how much Aqua Net hair spray is used. If it wasn’t my friend, Gina, asking me to come work with her I definitely would have declined the offer. Perhaps it was the, “Please say yes” that she threw in at the end of the offer but the fact remained that I was dreading this job. I was still tired and jet lagged from a 67 hour week of Cowboys and Indians in the New Mexico desert.

   I packed my mobile equipment in the trunk of my car and left my house at 2:30 PM which allowed me enough time to fill up with gas and make it to Orton Plantation by my call time of 3:30 PM. I spent my 45 minute drive reminding myself that I really enjoy recreating hairstyles from different periods and telling myself how nice it would be to see some film crew that I haven’t worked with since January.

   Once I arrived to the designating crew parking area I hit the ground running. I found which tent in the blazing sun was set up with mirrors and hot lights for the hair and makeup artists, unpacked my gear, plugged in my irons, my blow dryer and hot rollers and promptly blew the transformer box that our electricity originated from.

   “Locations!” the young production assistant called on her walkie. “Come to the hair and make up tent and get the power back up please.”

   Oh yeah! The gig is on. My clothes are already dusty and sweaty and my natural wavy hair, that I spent 30 minutes flat ironing straight, is already curling in the humidity. We have blown the transformer three times before finishing the first background artist in our chairs! Oh, the glamour of it all.

   Then, the magic happens. Characters begin to come to life as the wardrobe, hair and make-up transform contemporary men ,women and children into folks from a different era. They really do look like bobby soxers and teenage boys coming from an outdoor Elvis concert in Alabama. Some of these kids have never done this before and it is fun to watch their reaction to their own transformation.

   OK. I am hot, sweaty and stinky and my ankles are beginning to swell from four hours of standing behind a hair chair on uneven terrain, but I am in the zone.

   The time comes to accompany our background to the set. More movie magic. Street lights from 1960 flank the road we are filming on. A shiny, black 1958 Studebaker with an immaculate interior and several other cars from the era are parked randomly on the street. If it weren’t for the cameras and crew members all around, I would truly think we were back in the day. This is one of the things I enjoy about the business I am in.

   What really made an impact on me this day is the people that I get to work with. Big, burly, gutter talking teamsters who stop in mid sentence to smile and say, “Hi, Miss Coni. How is Mr. Ed?” As they lean down to give me a hug, they apologize for being sweaty and stinky. I quickly assure them that I am no bed of roses either. The truth is, I would rather have a sopping wet old Teamster hug then a flaky, faky Hollywood air hug any day.

   I was standing at base camp, catching up with some of the guys when I opened a bottle of water to drink and noticed that, somehow, sand had gotten under the cap. I laughed about what a good thing it was that I didn’t take a big, whopping swig of sand. The next thing I knew, two guys had gone off in opposite directions and came back at the same time. Each had a clean bottle of water for this old hairdresser. That might not sound like much but I felt blessed and honored to have someone, two someones, go out of their way for me.

  I don’t know when it happened or how I have earned the respect of these guys, but it sure does tickle me when a fellow crew member comes to hold the van door open and offer me his arm while I juggle my equipment and try to climb out of the van. Maybe it is just one of the perks of being a fifty-something woman. I have not always been a good example of Christian love on the set but, I do try to be real with people. In return, I get to feel safe, respected and almost at home on most movie sets I work on. Not a bad deal after all.

   I was just settling in for what I expected to be a 12 hour night when Gina came and asked me if I wanted to go home early. Our contract has a 12 hour guarantee that says the least I can be paid for is 12 hours. Yeah, even if I only stay for 8 & 1/2. There is my pay raise. My co-worker said he would let me have the early release first. Nice guy!

   On my ride home I called Ed. He had prayed for me and was delighted to hear that I would be home soon. As I hung up from him, I thought, “I am glad that I said yes to Gina. And I am REAL glad I am going home now.”

Here is a Christmas poem that I wrote for Ed one year. I share it with his permission.

I have wracked my brain in a search to uncover

The perfect gift for my friend, my lover.

He doesn’t wear jewelry except a wedding ring.

I keep coming up empty. I can’t think of a thing.

His closet is full of nice looking clothes.

He doesn’t really need any more of those.

Lots of books around for him to read.

I’d better ask the Lord, “Just what does he need?”

So, I got myself quiet and I started to pray,

Before too long, I heard my Father say,

“The most precious “thing” that you can give

Is to love this man for as long as you live.

This world is full of folks who are insecure.

What he needs is a love in which he can be sure.

He knows he can count on My love from above,

But I gave you to him so he would have earthly love.

Not a love that would fit him into your mold,

But a Godly love that would let him unfold,

To become a new creature with colorful wings.

To be free to grow without any strings.

Hold him tight enough to let him know

That you love him enough to let him go.

And always release him into My loving hand,

For it is I and not you who will grow this man.”

So, there is no box with a pretty red bow

That could hold all my love and help you to know,

That I want you to become what God wants you to be.

By that, the greater gift comes back to me.

Your Christmas gift is the love that I bring.

It is much dearer to have than a store bought “thing”.

The most precious gift that I will give

Is the promise to love you as long as you live.

I was driven from sleep by the sound of voices and crashing plates.   Our house was not that big and the walls were paper thin, so any noise from another room did not go unheard from the rest of the house.  Charlie and I sat up straight in our beds and strained to see each other in the darkness.  I called to him to see if he knew what was going on.  He told me to shut up so he could listen.

Its Momma and Daddy fightin’ again! He said.

What about? I responded.

I ain’t got a clue, Herm.  Just listen.

Momma and Daddy had fought before, but never like this.  What could it be that had Momma crying and wailing so.  Daddy seemed indifferent to the whole “discussion”.  Charlie crawled from his bed and lay on the floor by the door so he could hear better.  He effectively blocked what little light was coming into the room.  So I got down there next to him to listen too.  He was my big brother and whatever he could do I could also. 

Daddy had come home late again and Momma in her usual manner decided to interrogate him as to his whereabouts.  I guessed she expected him to start with his usual list of excuses but it was not to be.  For on that night we all discovered that Daddy had a second family.  Through my mother’s tears I heard:

“How can you do this to us?”

“What will you tell your sons?’

With each question she posed, the response came with icy quickness.  He didn’t have to explain himself to her and he didn’t care what she told us.  Momma had always been in church, but upon hearing Daddy’s indifference, hurled into a whirlwind of cuss words that would make the saltiest sailor blush.  It became clear to us that the crying was over.  Momma was mad, real mad.  Apparently Charlie didn’t want to miss it cause he popped to his feet and tried to open the door, knocking my head against it.  With me out of the way, Charlie burst into the hall to see Momma hit Daddy up side his head with the skillet from the stove.  I followed after Charlie and we both stood there with our mouths wide open as we saw Momma proceed to beat the fire out of Daddy.  Mingled among the continuous assault of cussing and beating was one phrase,  “Who’s cryin’ Now!”   She just kept hitting him with that cast iron skillet and Daddy was defenseless, barely able to cover himself in a vain attempt to fend off this attack.  Momma finally grew tired, both physically and of Daddy, and urged him to either leave and let that “tramp” take care of him or lay there and bleed and get some more of that skillet.  Daddy was not the smartest man but he knew well enough to pull himself up off that floor and get out of the house.  In his leaving he only looked our way once before he went out the front door holding his head.  The blood trail from that initial blow followed him out.  Momma watched him go and without a word returned the skillet to it place and sat down at the kitchen table.  Charlie and I sat down next to her, not knowing what to say.  Charlie’s lip began to quiver and the tears began to flow.  Momma looked at him, cupped his face in her hands and kissed away his tears.  My face was like stone.  Tears fought to jump from my eyes but I fought them back with everything that was in me.  I was determined to sit there unyielding.  The pain of what took place was etched on my face but I refused grief,  I denied it the satisfaction of victory.  Momma finally looked at me and said,  “Herman,  its ok to cry.”  I could feel my will begin to break as a single tear rolled down my face. 

“What are we gonna do now, Momma?”  said Charlie.

“I don’t know yet boys, but it will be alright!”

With that she squeezed our hands and drew us in for a long embrace,  I could hear her praying silently for us.  She kissed us and sent us back to bed.  Once back in bed, I let down my guard and the tears soon followed.  Sometime during that sleepless night I vowed never to be the kind of man my Daddy was. I vowed to break this family curse that sought to destroy my family.   It did not succeed!

 work in progress……

His hands shook as he crammed the last bit of meat into his mouth, juices pouring down his forearms. Reaching for his drink he saw the tracks running the length of his arm. His fingers grasping the glass were filthy deep in the crevices. If it were not for his thirst he would have pulled his hands back under the table. 

“Why did your father let him in? He reeks!” Sara said projecting her voice across the large oak table.“He’s just back from his travels.” Jacob spoke, cold steel in his heart. “Didn’t you notice his bags in the foyer?  Thomas has been to exotic locations and brought with him great treasure to share with his family.” 

Thomas’ left hand tightened in his lap. Hurt shot through him in searing agony. Raising his eyes to meet his brothers, tears fell on his empty plate. 

“That will be enough!” Sam said rising to his feet placing his hand on his sons shoulder. “Come with me upstairs Thomas; let’s find hot water to freshen up.” Thomas placed his hand on his fathers, “No father let’s address this here and now.” “Jacob, what you and Sara say are truth, I am not fit to sit at the table with you.” Sam’s’ grip tightened on his on his shoulder. Thomas stood to his feet, still shaky under him. “When I was laying in the gutter, my clothes soiled with my own vomit and excrement, I thought there was no hope left for me in this world, and I knew I had taken myself to the depths of hell.” Jacob stared at Thomas with complete contempt as Thomas spoke. Tears continued down Thomas’ face. “I only thought to come back to seek fathers forgiveness, although I knew I had no right.”  

“You left us behind to take care of all of the work! You were not even here when mother died, grieving for her lost son! She cried for you as if she didn’t have a son, a loyal and faithful son who stood by her side while you were out on one of your adventures!”  Jacob spat his venom into the room 

Samuel spoke with authority in his voice, “Jacob, your brother is home, I have welcomed him back, and you will do the same or you may leave.” Now both sons looked at their father with disbelieving eyes. 

“Love is like that sometimes.” Heads all snapped in the direction of the kitchen door. “Love doesn’t have eyes to see, it knows the heart.” “Rebecca!” Thomas leapt across the room sweeping his sister in his arms, as his brother sulked out of the room.“What a breath of fresh air you are! You’ve become a woman, and even more beautiful if that could be possible.” Thomas sat his sister back down. Rebecca placed her hand on her brother’s cheek, “you must forgive Jacob, he is speaking from a broken heart which has hardened from pain and unforgivness.” Sam reached for his son’s arm pulling him in the direction of the stairs. “Rebecca have Tabitha draw a bath for Thomas while we go and find suitable clothing for him to change into.” “Father please let me go to the guest house to change and clean up, I cannot stay here as filthy as I am, I am already dredging in dirt on the carpets, mother will…” Thomas’ voice trailed off as he realized the sharp pain of loss again in the center of his chest. Sam turned his son to face him, firmly holding on to his shoulders and looked him square in the eyes, still red and brimming with tears. “Thomas, although your mother has been gone only a short while, and I miss her with all my being, I know that she would be ecstatic at your return as I am, she would pay no attention to the dirt on the floor, her eyes would only see her lost son, returned to her as if from the dead. You are home, all is forgiven, and a fresh start is yours from this day forward. Take with you the lessons you learned, look back only to see where you have come as a marker for where you are going. Start today in a new direction.” “The water is ready, Rebecca called from the stairway, come while it is still hot.” “See even the servants are joyful at your return! They have heated your bath in a fraction of the time so that you could wash yourself clean from your journey.” Still weak, but stronger than he had been in a long time, Thomas reached for the railing as he ascended the stairs. Just the thought of clean hot water made his skin hunger. Quickening his pace up the stairs, he took the thick towel from Rebecca, and once again looked into those deep violet eyes. “Thank you Rebecca, I’m so sorry I wasn’t here when mother…Rebecca placed her fingers on Thomas’ lips, “hush go to the water before it is cold, and a clean body will do wonders for your spirit.”  

“Jacob, come down and talk to me.”  “How did you know I would be up here?” Jacob asked his father leaning over the edge of the barn. “This is were we always found you when you were a boy, and in trouble.” “You never found me here, I would remember it if you did.” Sam chuckled as he rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “Your mother and I knew you needed time to think about things, so once we found out this was your thinking place we respected your time here. You always came down from up there with a better attitude than you went up, and your mother thought that was a place worth respecting. So we never interfered with you here.” At the thought of his mother Jacob felt his hear clench and his anger and pain collided inside his chest. Leaning back on the smooth tin just starting to cool as the sun sunk on the horizon, Jacob looked at the sky and sulked into silence. “Jacob, you were our first born, the one we made all the rules for to lead you into a position of power to one day take my place, you were the one we always depended on, and knew would become a stalwart leader. You were our first and brightest child. Then Thomas came and we…”  “Yes then Thomas came, and I became invisible. The diligent loyal son became the abandoned son. Follow Thomas with the beautiful Rebecca and I became the forgotten.” Jacob sat up and looked down at his father accusingly.  “I can see how you would feel that way; Thomas was always the center of attention, relentlessly pursuing one calamity after another. I’m sure the only reason he survived is because you were there to pick him up, time after time.” “That is the worst part of all of this, where was Thomas when I needed him? Where was he all those months you were at mothers side, and I took on all of the responsibilities?” “Do you remember the time you and your brother came back from that fishing trip? You were carrying all of the supplies and Thomas came running up with the string of fish you had caught as if they were all his own, the joy in his catch was so contagious we all let it slide that it was you who caught the most, and the largest fish. Even you were happy that day. Do you remember it?” Jacob leaned back on the now cold tin roof and watched the stars emerge out of the darkness. “How can I forget, it was his first fishing trip, and he had been so excited he couldn’t remember to bait his hook each time he through it out into the river. When I would catch a fish he would splash his way over to me scaring off any further chances for trout for another thirty minutes, and impatiently rip the fish from the line and put him on the stringer. The only reason I was able to catch as many as I did was because I sent him down stream to look for turtles and frogs. He must have turned every rock over in that part of the stream because when I came to find him later, he had dammed up part of a side stream with his pile of slimy river rocks. On the bank were three medium sized turtles fighting for footing feet peddling the air.” Jacob chuckled at the memory, forgetting his anger for a moment. “He never could be still long enough to catch anything, the poor turtles didn’t have a chance, but the frogs were too fast and slippery for him. Too bad, frog legs would have been better than that awful turtle soup mom insisted on making after learning of Thomas’ great conquest of “turtle creek”. “That same young man is up in his room tonight, and he needs his big brother again. He needs your forgiveness Jacob; he has come home a different man than the young child that left here last year. He has squandered more than his money, he has lost part of his dignity and the degradation has taken a deep toll on his soul. Please consider the power of your welcome to your humbled brother.”Thomas watched his father and brother cross the field in the bright light of the full moon and starry night. A thousand lights seemed to radiate from his heart as he saw his brother and father walking toward the house. How much he had missed them, how many times had he thought to return, only to find himself deeper in the pit of despair and fear of returning to this place where his brother was the one his mother and father counted on to run the business. The thought of his mother’s absence caused him to fall to the floor on his knees in weak straining pain. His cry this time came from deep inside, bent over again crying silent heaving sobs.  Jacob and Sam walked into the room to find Thomas bent over sobbing and rocking back and forth on his knees. “I am so sorry, so sorry.” Thomas spoke between sobs. “I miss her so much. I am so sorry I was not here when she needed me, when you needed me.” Thomas looked up into his brothers eyes. “Can you ever forgive me? I can never repay all that I have destroyed. If you will just forgive me I will toil for you in the fields until my dying day. I will not sleep on my bed, but will make my place in the servant’s quarters, I will move there now. I am so sorry.” Bending over with arms wrapped about his waist, Thomas continued to weep and rock on the floor before his Father and brother. Both men knelt down on each side of him and placing their hands on his shoulder tears in their eyes as well, steadied Thomas in their strong grip. “Thomas you were forgiven the moment you turned and started on your way home. I know it was not easy for you to return knowing what you had done, and not knowing what would await you. I admire you for having the courage to believe that there would be a place for you here. Even if you believed that place would be among the least, you returned to find you were welcome and even this humbled you. I believe your return has taught me to treasure my home and family whom I almost lost to my pride. I am glad you are home brother, and I know mother would rejoice if she were here to greet you. Forgive me Thomas, for doubting you, and not showing you kindness and mercy in your time of greatest need.”Thomas looked into the eyes of his cherished big brother, with a look of wonder and new respect. “I lost everything I had, but I never lost my respect and love for you Jacob, I have always carried you in my heart. The things I did, the places I went were the lowest filth a man can find himself in. I feared you would find me in some of those places, and my shame would have caused me to die a million deaths. I held on to the hope, that if you did find me, you would help me find my way out. Now that I am here, you have helped me find my way home. Thank you both, I can never repay the debt of gratitude I owe you.”

Iyam, the keeper of the jungle in the land of La, sat high atop his rock and watched his garden below where the river flows and the Divi Divi trees grow. It was a very hot day and Rosy the elephant came strolling down the garden path and saw the cool river. She looked one way then the other to make sure it was safe to go into the refreshing water.

As she began to step into the river, she heard an angry voice bubbling up from the mud.

It was Albert the aligator. “If you step into this river I will bite your toes off.”

“Oh yeah!” Rosy snorted. “You just try it and I will step on you and squish you in the mud.”

Albert said, “Momma always taught me never trust an elephant because they will squish you in the mud. I can’t let you in my river because you look different than me.”

“Oh yeah!” Rosy responded. “This is not your river, it is everyone’s river. My momma says stay away from aligators or they will bite your toes off. Besides, you are not pretty like me. My nose is long and slender but your nose is fat and flat.”

“So what”, said Albert. “I have lots of strong, sharp teeth and you only have two silly, long teeth sticking out each side of your nose and you have big floppy ears too.”

“Oh, that was really mean.” said Rosy.

“Well, you were mean to me too.”

“Why do we have to be so mean to each other?” Rosy asked.

“Because it has always been that way. It’s the rules.” Albert replied thoughtfully.

“Can we change the rules? I don’t like to be mean.” Rosy admitted.

“I don’t know. Let’s go ask Iyam, the Great Gardener of the jungle. He knows everything.”

So Rosy and Albert began their journey to the Rock where Iyam lives. Rosy was very careful not to step on Albert and Albert promised not to bite Rosy’s toes along the way.

Rosy asked Albert if he liked biting elephant toes and Albert answered, “I would never bite your toes if I wasn’t afraid of being squished. Why do you want to squish aligators in the mud anyway?”

Rosy explained, “I would never squish you in the mud if I knew you were there. It’s just that you blend right into the mud and I can’t see you.”

By the time they reached Iyam, Rosy and Albert had become friends.

The two friends stood together in front of Iyam. He was smiling and happy to see them. “What can I do for you?” he asked the two.

Rosy spoke up and said, “We have always been taught that we can not like each other because we are different. That’s the rules.”

Albert continued, “But we like each other and we want to be friends. Can we change the rules?”

Iyam said, “If you choose to, you can be friends.”

Rosy promised, “Albert, I will not ever squish you in the mud, but I have to be able to see you there.”

Albert promised, “Rosy, I will never bite your toes off, but I have to know they are your toes.”

Iyam said, “I have an idea, if you will listen to me. We will let everyone in the jungle have a chance to help. We will ask the birds in the Divi Divi trees to gather all the red berries in the jungle and use them to paint Rosy’s toes red so that Albert can see them in the river.”

“OOOH,” exclaimed Rosy, “I will be so pretty with red toes!”

Iyam continued, “We can also ask the monkeys in the banana trees to gather the golden banana leaves and weave them together in a golden crown to put on Albert’s head. That way, Rosy can see Albert in the mud.”

Albert said proudly, “I always wanted a crown.”

Iyam said, “It is done.”

All the animals in the jungle gathered together at the river’s edge where the Divi Divi trees grow and rejoiced that there was peace at the river in the land of La.

End-note: This story is dedicated to Lisa Forstner who encouraged us to finish it and who sees the kindergardener in all of us.

Also: Fellow members of the writer’s guild, Would you please read this over carefully and give us your best critque. We are thinking of getting it illustrated and trying to publish this as a children’s book.

     Daniel was trying to fill his outfield.  He had his bat over his shoulder with his glove dangling from the end. Little Rizwan Kazjahni was at his side, glancing up at him and trying to match his purposeful gait.  Daniel was wearing his new Pittsburgh Pirates Bicentennial baseball cap.  It was shapedlike an ovular hatbox with a sharp edge all around the top. It looked like the style worn by the players from the eighteen hundreds.  When Daniel put it back on that morning he imagined himself a burly white man with a handlebar mustache belting one over the 400 feet mark.  His dad bought it for him at the game last night.  They were in heaven together.  Three Rivers Stadium roared and the Pirates trounced those rotten Phillies 6 to 1.
     Daniel need an outfield today.  Tut from Northside had challenged him to play their team at four.  Sometimes Tut brought his team to Daniel’s sandlot off Carson St.  Today was Daniel’s turn to meet them at theirs.  But he needed nine players.  Tut would not even consider playing Daniel unless he had a full team. 
     “If I can round up seven can you spot me two?”
     Tut spat his tobacco juice and shook his head. “Round up some honkies, if you need to.  But if you don’t got nine, we ain’t playin’.”
     Baseball was it to Daniel.  He had to play. He could have just gone to Tut with the six he had and played for his team.  Tut never had problems finding teams to play after little league season ended.  But Daniel did.  And he was a coach too, besides a pitcher and cleanup batter.  There was no way he was going to submit himself to Tut’s big ugly self.  It was one of those “Better to serve in hell…” deals. But scraping up that outfield was going to be a toughy.
     They tried Timmy Mayfield first.
     “Hey, Timmy!  Four o’clock over near the Clark plant.  Tut’s ready for us.  You can play right field.”
     Timmy’s face scrunched up.  “Four?  Lost in Space comes on at three-thirty.  Then Prince Planet  and Ultra Man.  I can play at five-thirty.”
     “Game starts at four, man!  ‘Lost in Space’?  ‘Ultra Man’?  This is BASEBALL, Timmy!”
     Timmy thought for a minute.  “Nah, these are really good episodes today.  I don’t wanna miss ‘em.”
     Rizwan had to double time it to keep up with Daniel.
     “‘Prince Planet’?” Daniel snuffed.  “Who’s he compared with stealin’ second?  Who’s he compared to Dave Parker?  Dave Parker’s Ultra Man!”
     Next was Robbie Goehring.  Robbie was a reliable player.  They were in the top reading group together at school. But Robbie’s mom was prejudiced. Anytime Daniel came to the door she had to anounce,”Robbie, that nice little colored boy is here to see you.”  Daniel HATED that, but was willing to endure it today to get Robbie to play ball.
     Daniel was pleasantly surprised by Mrs. Goehring on this afternoon.  “Robbie, Danny’s here.”
     Holy Smoke, Daniel thought.  No ‘colored’ intro.
     She stood by the door with Daniel and waited for Robbie. Finally she smiled at Daniel and asked, “So, did you watch Good Times last night?
     Oh, for Pete’s sake!
     “No, Ma’am.  I’m partial to Happy Days.”
     Robbie finally appeared.  “Hey, Daniel.”
     “Hey, Robbie.  Game at four.  Against Tut.  You can play right field.”
     Robbie hesitated, winced, then shook his head.  “I’m working on my new Huey, Dewey, and Louie models.”
     “They have models about ducks?”
     Robbie looked offended.  “No!  These are Huey, Dewey, and Louie, the robots from Silent Running.”
     It was Daniel’s turn to wince.  “Robots?  I need you, Robbie!  You can actually play!  You can build robots tonight after we play baseball. Come on!”
     Daniel and Rizwan were marching on alone, of course.  Rizwan was nearly running now, to keep up.
     “Robots.  Robots!  Man, I’m gonna start a club up, and the only rule I’m gonna have is that you gotta hate robots!”
      Luckily, Kyle Stuber and his brother Mikey were home together.  If Daniel could get them to play, maybe Tut would let him bum one player.  This was risky, though.  The last time Kyle played,  he ran off second on a caught fly ball, was tagged out, broke into tears and ran home.  But he could play…
     Oh no.  Kyle and Mikey were in their back yard playing Star Trek.  Kyle was Captain Kirk.  He had a squirt gun for a phaser.  Mikey was wearing plastic pointy Mr. Spock ears.  He had a cassette player for a tri-corder.  This was not a good start.
     “You can be Dr. Bones McKoy, Daniel!  And Rizwan can be an alien!”
     “No, Kyle,” Daniel pleaded, “you can be right field, and Mikey can be center!”
     Kyle shook his head.  “No.  I don’t like playing ball.”
     “But you’re great, Kyle!”  Not a complete stretch of the truth.  “Remember that time when Tut had bases loaded in the last inning and you ran back and caught that fly ball?  You won the game for us!  Tell me how phasers and robots and tri-corders are gonna give you a feeling like that?”
     Rizwan matched Daniel’s droopy funeral pace. 
    ”I don’t get it,” Daniel lamented.  “Kent Tekulve’s averaging five hitless innings per game. Willie Stargell and Bill Robinson are battling it out for .400 averages.  But I can’t even get three kids to play outfield!”  He spat and cursed.  “Robots!”
     Daniel could not fathom that his frustrations would only mount higher next summer.  Star Wars would be coming to a theater near you!

Jesus is Coming!

I know I know….stop looking at the clouds and get busy with the harvest. I can’t help it. I don’t remember a time before not knowing that Jesus is coming. Now I feel like the child who grew up in the fishing village and was told of the great storm that was to come and what signs to look for before the “Great Catch”.

All around me  people are looking gloomy, fearful or tuning out. I can’t think straight for the joy that is bubbling inside me! Lock me away I suppose they are saying, she’s over the edge they whisper behind my back. I truly try to contain the excitement. I know things will get worse before they get better. I know I know I know..but..Jesus is Coming!

Is my heart right, are my eyes on You?  I want to prepare for the wedding feast; I want to tell everyone I see, are you ready? He’s coming, isn’t it exciting! Yes I know it could be minutes or millennium. I don’t care. The excitement inside me is so intense I want to scream to the top of my lungs! Jesus is Coming! Get Ready Now!

Years of teaching, books upon books of reading and thousands of hours listening to Prophets, teachers, evangelist, apostles and preachers.

None of it stirs me as much as His breath in my ear. I have known of His coming from my very beginning, yet I walked away. I hardened my heart and mind. Stiff necked, disillusioned, desperate, lost and forsaken. I turned to my own way and fell into a bottomless pit. I deserved nothing but to be left there. How could I turn away from His Grace?

So now that His coming seems a heart beat away, why am I so ecstatic! Because He called me back to His embrace, He pulled me out of the pit I had dug for myself. He cleaned me up, and tore away the demons that had attached themselves to me. In time to sit at the wedding table, in time to dance at the feast, in time to cross the river Jordan.

I cannot begin to comprehend why He would love me so. Not only did He die for me, but He brought me back to commune with Him in these Last days. Perhaps they are only my last days, and not the end of times, I do not care. For in my declaration of Jesus is Coming I say Jesus has Come to renew His Bride for the wedding day. Prepare ye the way!

            Jason peeked out the doorway of his bedroom to make sure no one would see him.  As he tiptoed down the hall, he slipped by the unoccupied bathroom on his right and his sister’s closed door on the left.  She would never know he had walked past, since her stereo was blaring the local Christian radio station.  Silently, he moved into the master bedroom, his eyes scanning the tidy space.  His dad had straightened the floral bedspread on the antique, oak bed just the way his mother liked it.  The nick-knacks on her bedside table were neatly arranged including the gold, macaroni-encrusted picture frame Jason had given to her this past Christmas.  He turned to the tall, dresser and matching mirror on his right.  His mother’s jewelry box and perfume sat neatly on a small silver platter on top. 

He glanced at the door and listened carefully to make sure no one would catch him.  Then, standing on his toes and stretching out his arm, he clutched the bottle containing his mother’s favorite scent.  Jason’s small hands wrapped around the pink, glass bottle and he held it tightly to his chest.  Cautiously, the he removed the bottle’s cap and squirted the liquid into the air.  Just as he leaned forward to take in the aroma, heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs; his dad was coming.  Quickly, he tried to replace the cap but missed and accidentally sprayed himself.  He tried again and succeeded.  He reached above his head to return the bottle to its place on the silver tray.  Just as the glass made contact with the metal, he was startled buy the sound of his father’s fist pounding on his sister’s door and his booming voice threatening consequences if the volume was not quickly reduced.  The shock caused Jason to loose his balance for a second and he began leaning backward.  Fear gripped him as he realized he was falling and he groped for a handhold.  He fumbled and accidentally grabbed the edge of the tray; it was too late.  The loud crash brought the attention of his father who rushed down the hall and into the room. 

Jonathan Parker scooped up his frightened, crying son and held him close, catching a whiff of his wife’s perfume in the process.  He sat on the edge of the bed; Jason crying tears onto his shirt.  When the child’s crying lessened, Jonathan pulled Jason away from his body so he could see the boy’s face.  As he tenderly wiped away the tear tracks, he gave Jason a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder and began to question him.  “Are you okay, Pardner?” he asked. 

“Uh-huh,” Jason answered.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“I was trying to put something back on Mom’s dresser and I grabbed the tray as I fell.”  Jason looked down in shame as he finished the sentence. 

“What were you trying to put back on the dresser, Bud?”

“The pink bottle.”

“Why did you get it down?”  Jonathan asked gently.

“I wanted to smell her perfume,” Jason admitted.  “I miss her, and I thought if I smelled her again, I could dream about her tonight.”  The words tumbled out of Jason’s mouth quickly and took his father by surprise. 

A knot formed in Jonathan’s throat as he forced a smile for his son and embraced him in a bear hug.  The hug was intended to comfort Jason, but it also hid his own tears of grief from the eyes of his little boy.  After a moment, a small voice broke the silence.  “Daddy, is Mommy with Jesus?”  Jonathan lessened to ferocity of the hug, wiped his own tears, and then looked at his son.

“Yes, Jason, Mommy is with Jesus.  He is going to take care of her until we go to heaven,” he replied. 

Jason thought about this for a moment then said, “Good, can I go play now?”

“Sure,” Jonathan said as he put Jason down.  He watched the boy walk out of the room and down the hall.  Looking at the floor, he saw the silver tray and its contents scattered on the carpet.  He picked everything up and gently placed it all back the way it had been on top of the dresser.  As Jonathan turned to leave, the pink bottle caught his eye.  “Lord I want to dream about her tonight, too,” he prayed as he picked up the delicate bottle, sprayed the perfume into the air and breathed in the fragrance.

Sorry it’s late, I tried sooo many times to do this piece but hated them all at about the middle.  I hope this one turned out okay.      

           “Dad’s mirrored aviators slid down my nose as I looked at the two cards in my little hand.  I slowly lifted just the corner of the cards to see two aces.  At nine years old, I tossed my chips into the pot just like I had seen the guys on TV do many times before.  From that point on, I was never far from my deck of cards.

One day in college, I convinced my roommate to drive to Vegas with me.  I was overconfident while sitting at the Texas Hold ‘Em table.  I knew that no one else in the whole casino could beat me.  That is until the former World Poker Champion came and sat down next to me.  Knowing who he was, I began sweating immediately.  I lost the first two hands to him on stupidity.  I had to do something.  My pride wouldn’t let me loose to anyone, not even Joel Walsh. 

I stood to gather my thoughts.  After talking to myself, I sat back down, pulled a worn pair of mirrored aviators out of my shirt pocket and slid them on my face.  I was ready.  The dealer began dealing the cards.  I lifted the corners and checked to see what I had.  Five, seven off-suited.  Not a great hand, but I wouldn’t let myself fold.  I threw in my match to the bet placed and mentally coached myself not to be obvious with any tells. 

Impatiently I waited for the flop, my expressions held captive behind mirrored lenses.  The dealer flipped over three cards- four of diamonds, six of spades and king of diamonds.  My mind and heart were racing.  I was just one card away from a straight.  I could win with a straight.  I had won many times with less.  This was not a problem.  Then, I realized who was sitting next to me and my heart stopped.  Decision time.  If I didn’t get one of the two cards I could use, could I bluff the World Poker Champion out of the hand?  I thought I would loose everything I had for lunch right then.  The dealer was looking at me, motioning me to make a decision.  I watched my hand as it moved to raise the bet.  As the bet went around the table, two of the players folded.  That left Walsh, me and one other waiting for the turn card- queen of diamonds.  My heart sank.  My life was riding on the final card.  Meanwhile, there were three diamonds on the table, a possible flush for someone else. 

I called the bet again and waited for the last card.  The dealer lifted the final card from the deck and placed in next to the others on the table.  There it was, my heart stood still- the eight of hearts.  I had my straight.  Now I just hoped that no one had a better hand than me.  The betting went around the table three more times, each person trying to guess what the others held in their hands. 

Walsh threw a fifty-dollar chip into the center of the table, ‘Call.’  The third gentleman at the table showed his cards first- three kings.  My heart jumped.  I laid my cards on the table and smirked as I looked at Mr. Walsh.  He smiled and said, ‘You can take it all kid.’  He rose, leaving his cards face down and walked away.  From that day on, I knew I always wanted to play with the class of Joel Walsh.  I wanted to win this tournament.  Now that I have, seventy-five percent of the winnings are going to charity.”

            “Wow, quite a story.  I want to say thanks for taking time out to talk to us.  It’s been a pleasure.  That was Jimmy Rosedale, this year’s World Poker Champion.  Now back to you, Stuart.”  The announcer waited for the red light on the camera to go off, then he shook my hand again and we parted ways.

i wrote this one day when i was thinking how great my savior is. and how he is more than just my savior. be gentle. this is from my heart. and sorry about not capitalizing things. its my thing to type in lowercase. i hope you enjoy!  

invigorating…
a smile creeps across my face. i am at peace in my soul. i gaze out the window at the sunshine that peeks in through the curtains. i love it. i absolutely love it….
enticing….
he is calling me. my heart is longing for more of him. for more knowledge. for more love. for more grace. for more love. just more of him.
soothing….
the music speaks to my soul. it calls to the opening up and releasing of that which is holidng me down. i am not a prisoner to myself or my mistakes. i am a new creation and i can do all things through christ who gives me the strength.
beautiful…
the way he makes me feel when i am alone. the way he puts a smile on my face. how he just loves on me. how he encourages me, how he keeps me strong, how is lets me be me and doesnt want me to change.
i dont have to be a prissy lady for him. and i love the fact that i am his girl no matter what.
i just fell and he picked me up and brought me back in.
my hair pulled back as i sit and ponder the love of my savior. and how no matter what my circumstances, he is always willing to hold out his hand….
and love on me.
and lead me.
and dance with me.

Sorry for the delay. I have had trouble with this blog thingy. And fiction is NOT my strong point!

“Ms. Worthington”
“Ms. Worthington…its 7:00. Its time for you to get up Ms. Worthington.”
I totally cringed at the sound of my own name. I was not ready to get up. How did 7:00 get here so fast?
“Ms. Worthington, you’re going to be late for your appointment if you don’t get up…”
“My appointment?”
“With your father.”
“Ugh…I didn’t know we had an appointment today? And since when did I have to start making appointments to speak with my father?”
“College Ms. Worthington. The options for your schooling”, Maria said matter of fact.
“I know where I want to go to school Maria”, I said still saturated in my 1500 count Egyptian cotton sheets, “The Fashion Institute in Los Angeles.”
“Um..yes, Ms. Worthington, I do believe that I understand to where you are referring”, Maria said filling my room with sunshine as she whisked open all of the chocolate suede curtains in my room. “But your father was hoping maybe you would consider attending somewhere like New York University or maybe even his alma mater, Notre Dame.”
“The place with the humpback guy? I’ve seen that movie Maria. And let me tell you, I am not interested”, I made sure to emphasize the ‘not’.
“Ms. Worthington, you must get up and go”, she said one last time as she exited my suite.
“Awgh…fine!”I stumbled out of the king-size mahogany sleigh bed, slipped on my Dolce & Gabbana frames and headed down to the gourmet kitchen to see what Henry had prepared for breakfast.
“Egg whites again”, I said in a monotone voice, “Yay”. My facetiousness made a path through the stainless steel appliances and marble counters. I plopped my behind down at the massive dining table with royalty size chairs. 

Name is Bryce Worthington. I’m 18, brown hair, brown eyes, and on the verge of changing the world. Through fashion…that is. I am going to challenge and mold the fashion world, as you and I know it. I am determined, in your face, and not to mention, extremely sassy. If there was a soundtrack for my life the song “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” would be my theme track, not to mention songs by Kelly Clarkson, Celine Dion, and one thrown in there by the great band Queen.My Daddy is a CEO. Don’t even bother to ask me what he does or what he makes. It is too hard to keep up with. I simply smile and ask for the Visa with each trip to Kate Spade, Prada, and Juicy Couture. I am at the top of my Daddy’s world; I am his girl. The one and only. I have been since I was four years old. That is when my Mom passed away. Cancer. In her lungs. Neither Daddy nor I like to talk about that time in our lives. But we do like to talk about her smile. And the fact that she was love.
My mother worked for years under the great names of fashion: Burberry, Louis Vuitton, and Calvin Klein. She left her mark wherever she was. Wherever she went. Whatever she did. Without question, everyone knew it was Dianne Worthington. And now I wanted to follow in her footsteps.
There was only one problem. The parental unit. Despite the success that my mother had in the fashion arena, my Dad is incredibly hesitant about me even considering the option of entering that field. “Bryce a business degree from an elite accredited college would take you a lot further than anything from a silly fashion school” or “Baby B” (as he would refer to me at times) “how about joining the leagues of my alma mater…like father, like daughter?”. But Daddy didn’t know my heart. He didn’t realize my passion. I wanted to change things like my Mom. I wanted to pursue something that I loved. And believe me fashion is something that I absolutely adore. And today was just another attempt for my father to completely diminish my dream and try to convince me that the proper decision would be that of the one he wanted. And he did his research and his planning for these “meetings” that we often had and now scheduled. He brought in the fashion school dropouts, the ones that graduated and filled in a pair of shoes at the local Quik Mart instead of the local offices of Ralph Lauren, and ones who are continuing their goals in the basements of their parents’ estates. You know, he goes the complete nine yards. He does everything in his human willpower and CEO status to utterly extinguish the dreams that I have. But maybe today will be different. Who knows? Well despite that, I am going to slip on my Manolo stilettos and grab my Balenciaga and I am out the door.   

(Disclaimer) This was writen on a very lonely night,on a very long first season of Dawsons Creek. My deepest regrets and sincerest apology to the estate of DR Suess.

O’me O’my theres this lump in my bed,

Its quivering and snoring so I know its not dead.

Its lumpy and bumpy and sometimes a grump,

But I’m madly in love with this cute little lump.

It must appear in the middle of the night,

Cuz its always there in the morning sunlight.

Its nothing I dread, this lump in my bed,

It just quivers and snores, so I know its not dead.

Its a dainty little lump, just a small mound,

with hair sticking out of the covers in a pretty little crown.

I pat it and kiss it and bid it good bye

and go off to work with a tear in my eye,

knowing it will be gone before theres a moon in the sky.

Tonight all alone I will go to bed,

knowing in the morning there will be a lump in my bed.

It will always be here this I don’t fret,

Its the greatest little lump I have ever met.

When all is done and all is said,

I’m madly in love with this lump in my bed.

Composed by Ed shakeastick Andress

I never saw it coming. I never saw the sharp sword of deception being waved in my face. It looked more like a fragrant bouquet of roses – the offering of a long anticipated romance.

It’s as if all of life is pouring out of these wounds. I see the blood, oh, God – all of the blood! But I do not feel anything. Nothing has a clear edge, everything is soft like a pencil mark smudged by a careless finger and somehow I know there is nothing I can do but give in to the inevitable. I beat the floor violently looking for something, anything to cover up this ugliness. But there is nothing, only soaked carpet and an empty room.

We met in high school. I was the awkward girl that everyone avoided in the lunchroom. The cold shoulder was my only familiar friend and after a while I embraced it with comfortable acceptance. But one day he walked into my life. I had never seen anyone like him! He was everything I thought I would never have….

The room is so cold….unbearably cold. Flashes of light burn my eyes, but closing them doesn’t help. I can feel my will to hold on seeping into the carpet and I feel alone. Terribly alone. I wonder how long it will take someone to find me when it’s all over…..

 We were married by the time I was sixteen. Phil was seventeen and decided it would be better to drop out of school and find a job so he could pay the bills. My parents flipped and have not spoken to me since. We were in love and ready to take on the world but the world closed in on me all too soon. Phil started coming home later and later every night with the smell of cheap beer and perfume oozing from his pores. Any questions from me unleashed a man that I did not recognize and did not want to get to know so I kept me mouth shut.
 
I’ve been trying to get my voice to work for hours it seems. I can feel my mouth moving, but there is nothing…. just horrible silence. There are neighbors just on the other side of these paper thin walls and if they could just hear me….but they must have heard the yelling and the commotion as he beat me….

 After a while it did not take much to set him off. A questioning look, a gentle plea for affection, a request for money to buy food – it didn’t really matter. There was an anger stirring in him that defied reasoning or logic. I was the brunt of his misery and there was no where to turn for help. I had been abandoned by my family and had no money, no car, nothing. He had isolated me for a reason.
 
I’ve seen the true stories on TV of people in horrifying situations that somehow find a way out and live to tell about it. There must be some way to make it…some way to live. I surrender….I give up….God, if you are real can you please at least act like you care about me? Don’t you think I’ve been through enough hell? I’m not sure what there is to stick around for, but I’d like to find out.

 I woke up in the intensive care unit at the local hospital, a nurse sat at my side quietly. She must have seen me stir because her warm hand gently rested on mine and she looked at me with genuine concern. There were tubes coming out of every opening, a ventilator down my throat, monitors beeping incessantly on both sides and various fluids being pumped into my veins.  I noticed that the nurse was mumbling something and I strained to hear what she was saying. The only words I could make out were “grace” and “Jesus”. I did not know much about prayer, but I somehow knew that is what she was speaking – a prayer to a God I did not know but remembered asking for help in the middle of that nightmare. I pleaded to her with my eyes to not stop. I could feel peace for the first time in my life, beautiful life-altering peace.

I only have a second- Patrick’s screaming on the bed, Mike needs his diaper changed, and my mother-in-law is driving my sick eldest son home from summer camp to go to the doctor this morning but…

Thank you for your comments on my “purpose for writing” post.  I am very very sorry that I made you feel down, Mike.  But what you & Abbey & Connie wrote showed me two things:

1) perhaps it’s not so much about purpose as process.  I have been reading a little book called “Lifegiving” that has talked about this too.  If I try to do every action in my life with love (Do ordinary things with extraordinary love) then even the simple things will turn to blessings.  Perhaps it is that way with writing, too.  Perhaps I should stop trying to eat purpose in one big chunk, like a jelly donut the size of Milwaukee, and try to take it in manageable nibbles.  If I try to bless and love and give hope in every thing I write, no matter how small, perhaps the end result will be a life’s work that looks like what I’m dreaming of.

and 2) I also, like Abbey, find God and inspiration in the most suprising places.  Sometimes it seems he’s peeking out at me from everywhere I look.  For a while I was very strict about what I watched or read or let myself look at, but as time goes on I seem to be able to find purity and purpose in a greater variety of places.  I’ve loved science fiction since I was a little girl, but for several years after I joined the church I wouldn’t read any of it.  It’s what I always wanted to write.  Trying to change directions has been hard for me.  Trying to learn how to be subject to anyone’s authority has been difficult.  (I think I’m rambling, but the two thoughts seem to go together in my mind so I’m leaving them.  If I seem a little scatterbrained, blame the crying baby.)  At any rate, I’ll try to be a little braver about what I’m doing and, in my own words, “follow him and innocently trust/ that all things will be as all things must.”

 Thank you for your feedback.

I am the only child of Richard and Dorothy Halstrom. Mother and Daddy named me Anna because it means, favor of the Lord.

Daddy was a musician and Mother was an artist. In the afternoons, Daddy could be heard practicing his cello while Mother sculpted. She often said that Daddy’s music inspired some of her most beautiful sculptures. Mother would bring me into their studio with her, where I would sit for hours contentedlly coloring pictures or forming simple shapes with her left over clay. The rich, deep notes that Daddy would play made my tummy vibrate until it almost tickled.

Sculpting became my passion since the first time Mother placed a pliable hunk of cold, wet clay in my tiny hands and told me, “See it in your mind, baby, and then form it in the clay.” No matter what my creation looked like, Daddy would pitch his voice up an octave and excitedly proclaim, “Yes Anna. I see it. You made it beautiful!”

I attended The Art Academy, after my high school years, where I met James. I knew from the moment that I saw him that he was the husband God had selected for me.

James had great success selling his original, impressionistic paintings at a studio in Soho. We lived comfortably in our moderate surroundings, even able to build an art studio on the side of our house. When our children came along we made an area in the studio for them to actualize their inherent love for all things art.

When I began to have problems with my eyes I just chalked it up to the age factor and made an appointment to get them tested. We were not at all prepared for the diagnosis of Macular Degeneration. It was rare in someone as young as I and nothing we tried was successful to slow it down. Finally, I lost my sight completely. I was devastated and fell into severe depression that lasted for months.

One of my darkest days, I was wallowing in the quagmire of self-pity. I went back to bed, pulled the covers over my head and escaped into sleep. In my dream, I saw a masculine, bronze skinned, warrior with a sword and shield in his powerful hands. He was swinging his shield to fend off a blow that was invisible to my eye, lunging forward, stepping sideways and wielding the gleaming, sharp sword over his head, he came down with a thunderous blow that I knew had destroyed his enemy. The image of this powerful victor stayed with me long after I awoke. My mother’s words came back to me; “see it in your mind, baby, then form it in the clay.”

That night, James prepared my work place for me. The moment my hands touched that pliable hunk of clay, I instinctually knew where to pinch for the nose and just how hard to push the almond shape of the eye orbs. I knew how high the shoulders needed to be in order to wield the sword over head. When I was finished, James said, “Yes, I see it, Anna. It is the angel of the Lord.”

I know that God allowed me to see the battle that was going on in the Heavens for me. I have never again resented my blindness. My other senses are heightened so that I can still create in the clay what I see in my mind’s eye.

My name is Anna Halstrom and I am blessed and highly favored.

I can’t help it…I have to write a disclaimer. Uhhh, fiction is not my strong suit and, now that I’m done, I’m not sure it actually ended up being a bio. Anyway, read on with an open mind and please be gentle.  C

—-

I am special. The first of my kind. Genetically pre-disposed for greatness. You see, my dad had the ability to choose my each and every quality. I was designed to be the most handsome, most intellegent, most artistic…and, I Am. I’ve excelled in every testable area more than anyone else who ever lived. I guess he didn’t like the fact that maybe I was even greater than him, because he kicked me out. I don’t get it…HE chose these qualities - not me! Why do I get punished for his choices?

Anyway, he must have gotten lonely without me ’cause along comes sister. Boy is she feeble! He didn’t alter her genetic code at all, and it shows! She’s mostly blind, can barely hear and ignores most of what he says to her. She gets tired and falls asleep constantly. He has to carry her just about everywhere she goes. But to see how he looks at her - eyes full of love and admiration. Yeah, can you beleive it? ADMIRATION! I don’t get it. She is so naive, so needy, so pathetic! Yet, she gets all the attention and I am the outcast. She absolutely drives me crazy.

Now, I hear he’s going be the first to try cloning. Back to choosing genes again, huh, dad? I guess the only thing really good enough for him is himself. And he says I’m the vain one.

It’s all well and good. You see, I have a plan - one that is sure to work. First, I’ll show dad how easily this little one will disown him. It’s going to be too easy - she’s so gullible. She’ll break his heart into a million pieces. And, as for the clone, well, I have a few favors to call in. It’ll just look like science gone wrong.

Yes, dad is sure to see that I am the child to be favored. He’ll realize he turned his back on the best thing that ever happened to him. After all, all I ever did was what he asked of me. Can I help that I did it so well that he felt threatened?

Here I am in Wilmington NC, Lured by the promise of a meal, clean clothes and a shower.I am waiting for a van ride to a church called the Rock.

I never thought I could wind up like this,after all I come from a prominant wealthy Boston family,My Grandfather was the mayor of Boston for Petes sake. How could innocent partying in college bring me to drunk tanks and gutters.

I listen to the preacher on the speaker talking about grace as I peal off my clothes and enter the shower stall.It has been at least three weeks since my last bath and the hot water pulsating on my back is refreshing. Reviving me and enabling me to think more clearly. I scrub the dirt from my feet using a cloth to gingerly wash the open sores and blisters caused from not wearing socks. It embarrasses me yet somehow helps to restore me as I watch the grime disappear down the drain.

There has to be a better way then this I exclaim out loud as I stare at a gaunt hollow eyed stranger mocking me in silence from the mirror as I scrap the beard from his face with a fresh razor. I start to have mind pictures of a time caught between reality and hallutionation. A castle on a hill, draped in smoke and delusion, filled with secret passages and fun house mirrors. Real yet so fragile it could come crashing down like a house of cards at the first stiring of an ill wind.

I think back to what I regard as my golden age. In reality it was a time of adolescent innocence, lured by the sweet siren’s call of success and blinded by the smiles of self indulgent frauds. Trusting that all the scales were balanced equally and all the cards were laid upright. I think about all the mistakes and wrong turns I have made and maybe could be corrected with a roadmap wrapped in hind sight and renewed ambition founded on a rock and not shifting sand.

I sit in the back of the church and listen to the preacher talking about salvation and returning to God and feel a stiring within my soul. I hear myself repeating the prayer “Jesus be my savior”! “Father I am home!”

“It’s a lie!  It’s a lie of the devil!  You’ve been eating off of his table, Little One!  You’ve been washing up his dishes for ‘im after supper!  You sit there with that smug look on yo’ face like you’re mighty pleased wit’ yo’self.  May the good Lord come smack you right up side yo’ dirt-eatin’ grin, Little One!  All of nature knows you’re a liar!  Can’t you hear the cry of the whip-o-will?  He’s screamin’, “It’s a lie!  It’s a lie!  It’s a lie!”  Oooooh, Little One, you better hope the good Lord gets to you before I do!  I don’t take kindly to the devil’s agents…”

Willa Jean moved purposefully towards the front porch where Maggie was now on her feet and slowly backing up from the irate Willa Jean.  Maggie’s eyes grew wide with horror as she realized she had no more room to retreat.  Quickly, she gathered all of the courage she could muster and dashed toward Willa Jean with the force of a locomotive.  The look of crazed anger on Willa Jean’s face turned to one of wide-eyed amazement as she realized the child was charging her like a mad bull.  Maggie caught Willa Jean with one foot in the air and pushed her backwards off of her Grandmother’s porch.  Willa Jean’s yell  was only outdone by the scream  of the cat she had landed on.  Poor Bartomus had been skulking through the grass at the wrong time.  Maggie didn’t bother to stop to see if he was alright.  She had to get away before Willa Jean recouped herself.

Maggie raced through the moonlight having no time to devote to the thought of snakes or any other wild creatures she could encounter.  The night air was cool against her cheeks as she ran to hide amongst the plum trees on the other side of the dirt road.  She knew Willa Jean wouldn’t cross the road to look for her.  She had a fear of crossing the road at night.  That’s why she had cut through Maggie’s grandmother’s yard in the first place.  Maggie had suspected Miss Willa Jean was on her way home from seeing Mr. Canty who lived about a mile or so up the road.  Maggie had taken the liberty of pointing out this suspicion as well as a few others to Willa Jean and the woman had exploded like a Fourth of July fireworks display.  Maggie should have learned by now to stop teasing the woman whom she had heard her grandmother refer to several times as being somewhat touched in the head. 

Maggie crouched down amongst the narrow trunks of the plum trees and listened for any sign of Willa Jean breaking with tradition and coming across the road to exact her revenge.  Maggie watched as fireflies would slowly illuminate and then extinguish their light leaving only darkness to fill the void.  Crickets chirped, Frogs croaked and Maggie waited for any sign of the now dreaded Willa Jean. As long as there was a lot of sound underneath the plum trees, Maggie knew not to worry.  If she heard the crickets and frogs go silent, she knew something or someone was lurking nearby.  That being noted, Maggie dropped to the ground and leaned against her favorite tree.  It was extremely bright for night and this was the first time she had enjoyed the comforts of this spot during a nocturnal visit.  Maggie closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The sweet smell of honey suckle tickled her nose and made her smile in spite of the circumstances that had driven her there.  Although the tree trunk was rough against her back, Maggie found herself nodding off, quite comfortable beneath the plum trees.  It didn’t take long before the dream began…

“Who are you?”  The little girl asked somewhat cautiously.  Maggie turned to see a pretty little girl who didn’t look to be much younger than her.  She had dewey skin the color of sifted cocoa. Her ebony hair, parted down the middle, was in two long plaits which just reached the back of her shoulders. A lavender satin ribbon held both of the plaits together near the ends. The girl wore a white cotton dress with a lavender sash around the middle.  She wore no shoes, yet she had on what appeared to be white tights and held a pair of white buckled dress shoes in her left hand. The girl squinted at Maggie as if the sun were in her large almond shaped eyes. 

“I’m Maggie Jakes. I live here with my grandmother and my sister Alberta.  Who are you?”   The little girl smiled as if she knew a secret, yet would not reveal it to Maggie.  Maggie questioned the girl again, yet was met with the same response. Maggie went on in an effort to get the girl to open up.  “I have an older brother, Thomas, but he doesn’t live with us.  Grandma says he’s off fighting wars he created for himself.  I write to him sometimes and ask how the war’s coming along and he doesn’t ever seem to know what I’m talking about.  He says he’s not in the army -  He’s simply a country boy trying to make it big in the city.”  The little girl smiled at Maggie and nodded her head once as if to encourage her to go on.  Maggie continued, “My sister Alberta is only three years older than I am but she likes to act as if she’s my mother. I tell her she’s not much older than me and she tells me to mind my elders! She always tries to trick me into doing her work, but I always have something to say about it!  My Grandma says I always have something to say about everything.  She says I get that from my Granddaddy.  I never met him.  He passed away way before I was born and he left Grandma all of this land, Grandma says it was just about all he left her.  But she seems to do pretty well, if you ask me.  We use the land to plant a lot of our food.  We also sell some of the crops.  Grandma’s got a head for business.  She says she never discovered that until after Grandaddy passed.  She did what she had to do. She had kids to raise and mouths to feed and nothin’ but the land and the Good Lord to work with.  I say she had all she needed.  But then again, Grandma does say I always have something to say! My best friend, Cori (that’s short for Corita) lives a few places down the road. She lives with her two brothers and her Mama and Daddy.  She hates being the only girl in the family and is always wishing for a sister.  I told her she was much welcome to Alberta.  Alberta overheard me when I told her and she didn’t speak to me for a whole half a day! When I’m not in school, I spend as much time with Cori and her family as I can.  When I’m here and bored with myself, I have old Bartomus, the cat, to keep me company.  We just about run this place, Ol’ Bartomus and me.  We understand each other.”  The little girl raised one eyebrow and seemed to smirk at Maggie’s last comment. 

Suddenly, the little girl’s eyes squinted to small slits and she broke her self-induced silence, “What about your Mama and Daddy?” 

Maggie was caught off guard as much by the girl’s sudden vocal skills as she was by the question. She wasn’t used to questions about her parents.  Maggie looked away and swallowed hard before turning back to the little girl.  “Grandma says my father’s name is Samuel… Samuel Jakes.  I’ve never met him.  I do have an old picture of him that belonged to my Mama.  I keep it in my shell box.  I keep all of my valuables in there.  Grandma said it belonged to my Mama and she would want her babygirl to have it.  I don’t remember too much about my Mama.  I was just three when she died.  Grandma doesn’t like to talk ’bout it much.  I overheard Cori’s mama telling a cousin of hers one day that my Mama’s death was no ordinary thing.  She said she was killed and that the killer was still on the loose. She said it was a mystery that had yet to be figured out.   When I interrupted and asked what a mystery was, they shut up and made me go back outside with the others.  I got home that night and when Grandma was tucking me in, I asked her what a mystery was and what it had to do with my mama’s death.  Grandma looked real sad and said we shouldn’t talk about such things.  Then she hugged me harder than I can ever remember.  She even forgot to tell me to say my prayers.  I said them anyway after she left the room.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything sadder than seeing my Grandmama cry….”  The little girl looked away with a sullen expression and almost seemed to nod in agreement.  All of a sudden, Maggie heard an unfamiliar sound.  Silence.  The crickets’ orchestra had come to an abrupt halt.  Fear began to envelope Maggie with the realization of what that meant.

Maggie’s eyes flew open and focused on a shadowy figure that had invaded her grove of plum trees and was quickly moving towards her.  She opened her mouth to scream when a stout hand clamped over it, stifling her cries.  “Hush child!  It’s me!”  Maggie’s mounting horror turned to relief as she recognized her grandmother’s voice and callused hands.

“Oh, Grandma, thank God it’s you.  I was afraid it was that crazy Willa Jean…”

“Hush!  We don’t have time for that now.  We’ve got to go!” Maggie knew by the sound of her grandmother’s voice something was seriously wrong.  She could tell by her tone it was not related to Willa Jean’s fall off the porch.

Grandma hurriedly pulled Maggie from beneath the plum grove, through a clearing and across the dirt road.  They ran all the way to the house and Grandma banged on the front door.  “Alberta, it’s me!  Let me in!”  Maggie wondered why Alberta was locked up in the house.  They hardly ever locked the front door before they went to bed. 

Maggie looked from her grandmother to Alberta and then back to her grandmother as she observed her quickly locking the door.  “Grandma, what’s wrong?”

Maggie’s grandmother shouted for Alberta to get her bible.  “Open it to the 91st Psalm.  We’ve got to fight this fear.”

Alberta did as she was told as Maggie continued to plead, “Grandma, what’s wrong?  What is it?”

Maggie’s grandmother looked at her with an expression of sheer pain mixed with anxiety.  “Oh, baby…It’s happened…It’s happened again…The Jefferies’ girl….just like with your mother!”  The girls watched as their Grandmother’s beautiful brown eyes filled with moisture that seeped down her chin before dropping off and staining her pink cotton blouse. Grandma’s tears preceded sobs that seemed to shake the whole house.  Maggie and Alberta held their grandmother as she gave voice to the grief that had been with  her for years.  As the night wore on and the moon began to set, all three of them wondered what peace, if any, the next day would bring.  

Alright, I need to make a confession to everyone so that you can all keep me in check. I have been convicted about the excuses I can come up with at the drop of hat for not writing. I recently read a poem that Jane Schneeloch wrote in a writing workshop and it made me ache, literally. 

WRITING TIME

I stop writingto make a cup of coffee

to read the mail

to put a load of wash in

to play a game of solitaire

to water the African Violet

to straighten out the piles on my desk

to pluck my eyebrows

to call my mother

to shorten a pair of slacks

to pay a bill

to look for a lost phone number

to check my e-mail

to get another CD to play

to file my nails

to scan a picture of my cousin

to make lunch

to watch the news

to read a magazine

to put the wash in the dyer

to make a cup of tea

to take a nap

to put the laundry away

to shut off the computer

and wonder where

I will find the time

to write great things.  

Wow – does anyone else feel convicted for neglecting their gifts besides me?  I have for years but I have made a decision to do something about it. And I have finally decided to put my money where my mouth is! Last week I enrolled in a two year Creative Writing Program developed by Jerry Jenkins. I have been assigned a professional writing mentor who will guide me through the process, grade my assignments and give me valuable insight and advice. There is no turning back now. (Well, I do have 30 days to change my mind and get my money back, but none of ya’ll are allowed to let me do that!) 

So, now it’s out there. I can’t take it back, you all know my secret and I expect you to ask me about how it’s going. We all need a little accountability, especially us creative types. (We can become awfully creative when it comes to making up excuses, can’t we?)

    I have been thinking about vocation (in the Catholic sense) and the purpose of writing for Christ.  I have been thinking about what I should write about.  I have been trying to choose a voice, a purpose, and a genre.  It’s not enough to have talent, you know.  You have to know what to do with it.  So many artists fall into the trap of worshiping their own talent.  They give expression to their feelings and desires with little thought to what they are building or producing with their work (other than money of course.) 

I am interested in writing as a vocation.  I’m not thinking of vocation like a vocational school- just a job, a way to get ahead.  I’m thinking of vocation as a calling, like the calling a nun has to subject her entire life to the service of her Lord.  I had a vision once of how the Lord saw me.  I was clothed in shining white, and I held a sharp sword, like a vestal virgin or Joan of Arc.  (I have trouble reconciling that with the overweight nearly middle-aged woman I see in the mirror, but God has his own way of seeing things.)  He was speaking to me about the purity and clarity and acuity he expects from me as I write. 

    Once I complained to him that I was terribly self-centered.  I can only write about myself, what I think and what I feel.  Everything I write is about what’s within me.  He said that it was all right- if I was filled with Christ, when I wrote that way He would be displayed for all the world to see.  Another time he told me simply to write “More truth, less art.” 

I am frustrated with my work because I am not satisfied to simply entertain.  I don’t want to write something that is merely appealing or fun or pleasurable.  I want to write things that are “first of all pure… also peace loving, gentle at all times, and willing to yield to others… full of mercy and good deeds… show[ing] no partiality and always sincere…” because the bible says that this kind of writing would be the wisdom that comes from heaven, planting seeds of peace and reaping a harvest of goodness.  (James 3:17,1

There was a time when, for entertainment to be an escape from reality, it was full of action heroes, spies, drama, and maybe even a little thrilling violence.  Nowadays, everyday life is so full of drama and violence we are ready to vomit it up, like Israelites full of quail!  If we want a book to be an escape from reality, it would have to be a book of peace.  How many people remember anymore what peace feels like?  What it feels like to rest and feel comfort and joy?  Perhaps I am foolish- perhaps a book like this would never find a publisher and never sell, but I think people are exhausted.  I think we are wrung out with highpaced sound bites and flashing images and brutality and pain.  I was watching my children play an arcade game on our computer recently that was very fast-paced and loud.  I thought of all the parenting magazines that are worried about creating a stimulating environment for our children to develop in- I think the poor things are over-stimulated already.  They don’t know how to sit still.  They don’t know how to rest.  They find no peace, no quiet, no place of safety.  We are all like children who have forgotten the way home.

What I just wrote sounds like I am condemning action fiction, and that’s not what I meant.  What I am trying to explain is why I don’t want to write it.  I know it’s popular, and thus it is a good vehicle for witnessing.  But what I want to make is something that will reach into someone’s heart and create in them a longing for joy or an expression of home that they’ve never experienced but hungered for all their life.  And I stagger and rage at my inability to express what I mean.  I feel what I want to say inside me, and I so visibly lack the ability to translate it for other people.  I’m not even sure what it would look like, forget actually writing or selling it! 

I told someone once that it would be something if I could just write a book that people would walk away from with two things: 1) a feeling that God wanted them and loved them deeply and 2) that there was still hope on earth.  I want to make literature of trasmogrification, that turns grief and suffering into a hymn of joy.  On odd days I despair and beat myself up, but on even days I can’t contain the glorious love of God within me and I feel if I can’t write it out, I’ll bust.  Today was an even day.  I can still feel my spirit shaking like a leaf.

I used to say that I had talent, but nothing worth while to say.  Now I have something to say and every bit of talent I once thought I had seems like dust before it.  And all my pretensions to please fade away…  A couple of you kind of lovingly and gently spiked me for my “disclaimer.”  I guess I write disclaimers because I feel like someone newly off of crutches.  You’re telling me to cheer up- that I’m jogging so well!  And I’m dreaming of marathons and frustrated and fearful that I’ll never be able to go the distance.

Anyhow, that’s what I’ve been thinking about the purpose for my writing.

For all of you who took part in the narrative writing class this summer…here’s my conflict narrative.  I think I’m going to keep  adding to it.  One of the characters, in particular, has intrigued me!  Although, I seem to miss more classes than I know I should (I work night shift and have an extremely hard time adapting my sleeping schedule- Sorry!) please know that my heart is with the guild even when the rest of my body is not!  That being said, I hope you’ll enjoy a little “Rain”.    Hazel

It rains on both the just and the unjust……..

     Lightening forked across a midnight gray sky.  Cherise stood on the deck of the weathered beach house and stared dazedly out to sea.  The wind assaulted her with violent blows as she dared to bare the elements that, at that moment, seemed to want to drive her from her perch.  R.J. watched the shadowy figure from across the street and several floors below.  He knew nothing short of a hurricane was going to chase her from the deck.  It was her special place.  She used it in order to clear her mind and right now she needed to think rationally. R. J. could tell from their prior encounter, her thoughts had become too cluttered, too emotional, too much for her to bare alone.  He hoped she wouldn’t jump to any conclusions about the situation before he had a chance to check it out.  ”Why did I get myself into this?  All I wanted was a quiet night at the beach. Hmm! I should have never answered the door.”  R.J. retreated from his thoughts long enough to answer the ringing phone.   

     ”Are you alone?”  asked a female voice.

     “Didn’t I say I was going to be alone?” R.J. huffed as he sat down on the edge of the daybed.

     “Don’t answer my question with a question!  I asked if you were alone!”  Click!  “R.J.! ….R.J.!  I can’t believe this! …What in the… ? What happened to the redial button?