She's a Writer

I check my personal email just before heading out the door of work. Interesting. There's one from my daughter. She doesn't usually email me. She calls, or sends a facebook message. I click on it and start reading.

It began, "Here Lilly, Happy early birthday." The story pulled me in and took me on a fast journey into a the world of teenage girls. It wove and wound around corners, took me into treetops, not literal, but figuratively.
The language was smooth, real and believable. The characters painted were vivid, colorful, intense. Alive. Yes, that's it. They were alive. I could hear their voices. What an amazing writer! As I continued with the story, nearing the bottom of the first page, I recognized a spelling error, "meant" was spelled, "ment." Could this be Annabelle's story? No. Not hers. Then I came to this line, ""I felt like i was being packed in a sardine can. I couldn't move an inch without touching someone. Literaly. I hate people! I hate people! I hate people! I hated crowds, always had. I was a bit of an introvert.
Holy crap! This is Annabelle's story. NO WAY! Holy Crap!...
My dyslexic daughter is writing this?! 
I began to speed read, my heart raced and I leaned close to the computer screen, hanging on each word. What would happen next? Questions filled my head. "Where did the tickets come from and why doesn't Annabelle want to go to the concert?"

Questions are good when you are reading story. It's what keeps the reader motivated. How can she do this so well, so easily...and so damn young?

I finished the chapter and went back to my email to send her a response, and saw there was another email from her. Yay. More of the story!

I clicked it open and continued on this journey.

Annabelle is now riding in a car with Harry Styles. And she doesn't know who he is because she's in a Broadway bubble. The most famous young man in the world, and quite possibly the best looking, is taking Annabelle to an audition. He'd knocked her down on the sidewalk, and then offered to give her a ride, to kind of make-up for it. On the way there, they get mobbed by teenage girls, and Annabelle is clueless as to why this is happening. I chuckle when I read it.

What a GREAT concept! I'm jealous of my own daughter's talent. I've been working on a novel for 2 years now...and she's just pumped out two riveting chapters...that look to be effortless....

I can't wait to tell her what an amazing writer she is. How proud I am that she has a story in her head, and is able to paint a picture with such brilliant colors. In some places, the colors are soft and pastel-like, then quickly, she uses intense reds, oranges and black. Moments later, the picture nearly shifts to grey...How does she do that? I don't know. And it doesn't matter.

I reply to her email, telling her that I'm hooked and want to read more, among other things.
This is not what I expected from her.

When I see her later on in the day, we talk. She tells me that she wrote more than 6 more pages today in class. "So you were in a class with computers?"
"No mom. No computers?"
"How did you write then?"
"With a pen, in my notebook."
My son chimed in. "The old-fashioned way, mom."

Boy did I feel silly. Yep. She's a writer.
She's definitely a writer.....

A country song
Tells me everything
is going to be okay

Because the rain falls
the tractor plows the dirt
And the crops come in.
Time to stand Barefoot
in the tall grass, feel
the sun on your brow.

If I sit on the tailgate
And watch the stars
with someone I love
then everything is going
to be okay

If I ride down an old dirt road
drink a beer
Hold someone's hand
Go to a field and dance
Hang my t-shirt on a limb
And dive in
Then everything is going
to be okay

If I roll down the windows
and just chill
or cruise
and then spread a blanket out
on the ground
and watch the stars
Then everything is going
to be okay.

Simple
True
Good

I've gone country
and discovered
God is here
and everything is going
to be okay

Trust

I walk off the edge
of my own life.

And expect to spin
and feel scared
and loose consciousness

But instead
I feel safe
And loved
And warm.

And discover there is
A large net
that was only
6 inches down.

I sigh.
and breathe in life
and love
and get up
and walk across the net.
It's sturdy.
The rope is triple wound.

Yes, three pieces.
Trinity.

Close the Book

This story is over

And I stay on the last page

re-reading the last line

over, and over and over

Because its not the ending I wanted

It's not the ending I planned for

or dreamed for

or hoped for

or prayed for

Did God hear my prayer?

Does He see this?

Or did he glance away, for just a second

While this last line was written

Or worse yet?

Did he allow this line to be written

A line that cut my heart in half

And left me like a pile

of flesh

Bleeding, openly

For days and weeks

I have decided that the latter is what happened.

He allowed it

Maybe my heart needed cutting

Maybe it was wound too tight

in the flesh

And the only way to release my

spirit

Was to be cut

So here I sit, cut open,

weeping, and weeping and weeping

And sorting through the past 16 years of my life

and asking myself

what I am supposed to do next

Asking God to show me how to grow in this

As I pray

I hear a knock on my door

It's Fed-Ex

A non-descript man hands me

A small package.

I sign for it.

Will it contain a bomb?

I almost hope it does.

I open it

And there lies a book

With a white cover

and small gold letters

with a title

"Sequel to Book One"

I open the cover

and a tiny white feather, 

floats up and around my face

then a wind carries it away

I turn to the first page

And it is blank.

I flip through the whole book

And it's pure whiteness almost blinds me

I go inside

And lay the book face down.

Taped to the back of the book

Is a pen, with silver ink

And a small note

"It's time to write...."

Another tiny white feather

is stuck to the back cover

I trace it with my finger tips

And a sense of hope

Wells up in me

I weep in gratitude

"Thank you." I whisper

To whomever sent me this gift 

Moving

Moving

Boxes

Empty and ready

To store all the wishes

and dreams

and Promises

And Pain

I will put it all in boxes

So I can put away the pain.

The walls weren't thick enough to keep out

an Act of Evil

Because evil can slide under and over and even

go straight through

Physical barriers

Negative energy can smother love

It can drown even the best swimmer

It can choke the widest river

I must put it all in boxes.

And allow what is

to just be

and start over

With nothing

Exept a wounded heart

and a wee little bit of faith

Faith That the seeds I planted,

Seeds of truth

Will germinate

And sooner, rather than later,

Something will grow

In this pile of shit

That I am standing in.

One Direction

We sit in front of the computer. Sharing a single chair.

The wood stove heats the room.

"You have to see this video."

I know that it will be something cute. How could it not be? 

Five young men, well-dressed, slim, 

pretty faces,

smooth voices.

Snapshots hanging on a clothesline

Row after row of them

Close up's of little boys

Playing with toys

Sitting in their mother's laps

Eating in high chairs

Having messy faces

Laughing with their sisters

These are just like

the photos hanging on my walls.

That I need to take down,

Because the reminder 

of what is no longer here,

Is too painful 

to Look at 

Every

Single

Day.

Tears streaming

With no concern for who is watching

"Mama, you are crying?"

"Yes, I am."

She places her delicate fingers on my cheek.

"That photo looks like Lilly and Zebbie."

I know they have missed each other.

How could they not?

People thought they were twins.

They are, in a way.

Separation of twins is never a good thing.

My heart has been torn for them.

They have been reunited.

So my tears are of joy.

Knowing that even though they claim

that they can't stand each other.

Deep inside

They are glad to be

Together

Again.

The Storm

It didn't come quickly, as winter storms do.
It came slowly, like the summer storms.
You see them on the horizon.
A dark, black line separates the
light blue, peaceful sky
from the harsh wind, rain, and hail
that lie dormant
in the heavy clouds.

I built a shelter above ground.
Bolted the windows, sealed the doors.
But as the storm came closer, I could see the destruction in its wake
So I began to dig, first quickly, and then feverishly,
as fast as my hands could move
To create a safe place for myself and my loved ones.
That is what mothers do.

Just as the storm began to unleash itself
I called my family to the shelter.

Two got confused, and thought I was calling from outside the shelter.
They ran into the storm, and got sucked out into flying debris
and the harshest of hail this world has ever seen.
One heard my voice, and came to the shelter, hunkered down.
We listened to limbs crashing down, the roof caving in
water rushing through, pounding and pounding
as part of our lives washed away.

As the storm subsided, we exited the dark, safe confines.
The grief of the two missing ones, nearly overtook me.
But I had one, alive, thriving, that needed me.
I began to pick up the pieces and rebuild.
Singing, music, laughter, wonder, imagination
filled our home
Alongside a constant sorrow, like a lonely violin,
playing over and over, behind every scene in my life.

as I grieved the loss of the two missing children.
But peace gently descended
as I cried out to God.

A coldness descended.
Winter.
A brisk wind, out of the north, swept down while my back was turned,
and lifted my safe child out of my reach.

I called out, holding her hands tightly,
as she gripped my wrists.
But the roaring wind would not let go.
It pulled, with a vengance.
"Let go of my hands!" I pressed out of my lungs.
Her face, twisted and torn, begged me to keep holding on.
But I saw her shoulders beginning to separate, and the pain on her face
was unlike any I've ever seen.
I peeled her fingers
off my wrist, one by one
And watched her fly into the heart of the storm.

I pray that she will find her way out, along with the other two.
And when they return,
I will have the Red Cross standing by
To provide the best first aid
On planet Earth.
God's healing salve, that came to us, through Jesus,
will mend  the bones, and the cuts, and the bruises
and mis-guided thoughts
About life and love.

But I must wait.
And pray.
And believe.