Mornings begin with bravado: blatant and defiant
(merely cynicism in disguise)
My voice chirrups with songs on the radio
while words prod a brand upon my heart
Soon daily rhythms numb the angst of midday,
and the bright noon sun makes me mellow as a daisy
What is it about a quiet car ride that gives early evening the final verdict?
Night stay turned and earth be still.
What else do I need but you?
So this is me…sitting here in my fuzzy pink robe with the day to myself. And it feels like you were talking to me yesterday in the car, on the way home. It felt like you said it was time for me to get back to work… back to remembering . That it was my job to tell my story and tell it well. To tell the truth, because it could help someone the way that other true stories have helped me. And of course there’s the other main reason: that you’ve given me the ability to write, so I need to do it. Plus, if I write about my experience(s) with you, then I’m acknowledging you. I’m giving witness to my faith (ugh, that sounds so pretentiously pious) but I’m saying this is what I believe happened and it wasn’t an accident, and there is someone in control of my life other than me, who works out the details and shows me his face from time to time.
NO I can’t prove any of it. I just have my memories and feelings. And just because I write it all down doesn’t mean I ‘ve got my whole life figured out , or that I don’t mess up anymore, or that I have the faith I should have to trust that you’re in control of my future too. Growing old, dying, eternity – they all still terrify me. Next week, tomorrow, two o’clock this afternoon – they’re all beyond my grasp. All I’ve got is this moment. Here goes
'Cause every death is a question mark
At the end of the book of a beating heart
And the answer is scrawled in the silent dark
On the dome of the sky in a billion stars
But we cannot read these angel tongues
And we cannot stare at the burning sun
And we cannot sing with these broken lungs
So we kick in the womb and we beg to be born
Deliverance, O Lord!
A long time ago, way before I started this blog, I wrote my first book. It’s a picture book about a little girl and her grandpa. I think it actually started as a rhyming poem, but I’d be hard pressed to find the original idea in my piles of papers around here. Since then it’s been revised quite a few times. It started out it in third person; then I switched it to first. I wrote in past tense, then switched it to present. Then, four years ago, I sent it out to a publisher. Two months later I got my first rejection letter. Well, it was actually more of a note, but it was not handwritten. I was not what you’d call devastated, but I guess since I haven’t done anything with it since then, I didn’t handle it all that well.