Back to Writing

This crew keeps me on my toes.

Instead of writing,  I've been nursing sore toes. But now, the words are demanding to be written.

Since I last blogged, almost 3 years ago, so much has happened. The boys are all in school and doing well. We bought a bigger house! Our church bought a beautiful church building. Life.

I'm making a commitment to post here at least once a week. I'm sure most of my followers have moved on, but I look forward to meeting new people and maybe reconnecting with some of my old friends.

Watch this space!

I went to school for this

I struggled through 4 years of college to write. I kept going to school, through a near-death medical emergency, a subsequent heart attack, and a lengthy recovery. I kept going because I was driven to write.

But I don't write.

Words, sentences and stories tumble around in my head constantly. I never put them to paper.

I mean to. I plan to. I just don't follow through.

I'm not sure what is going on, but I need to get past it. I need to make myself push through this place. The stories are inside and they need liberated.

For three or four years, my Mom and I talked about taking a trip to the town where she was born and lived until she was 11 or 12. She wanted to look around. She wanted to tell me stories. We planned it. We dreamed about it. We talked about it. We never did it. She passed away and we will never take that trip. Every time I pass the exit to her town, I remember the things we never did.

I need to write while I can.

Escape

The wooden screen door thwacked shut and the shouting inside succumbed to the droning chorus of the cicadas. My summer-browned bare feet carried me across the searing sun-softened tar of the black top. At the end of the street, pavement yielded to hard nature-kilned clay veiled by powdered sand. The dust cooled my toes.

I paused to crouch at the small stagnant pond beside the path. Last summer I would have stretched out on my stomach to watch the tadpoles, crawdads and water bugs. Now I am too self-conscious. Even in my over-sized t-shirt I don't want to be reminded of my emerging breasts. Stretching my legs, I trekked on.

Thoughts tumbled as I passed dry, root-bound tumbleweeds and gnarled mesquite trees. The sharp exchange between my parents pierced my mind as I avoided prickly pear cactus. A skittish black tarantula hastened to her hole, safe from the burning heat.

I reached the NO TRESPASSING sign at the base of the earthen dam and climbed past it to the top. I settled on a large rock and scanned the horizon for the muddy lake in the distance. An emerald skink flashed in the brush beside me. I hugged my shins, knees pressed against my bosom. Sighing, I beheld my world in the simmering afternoon.

We Didn't Know

Twenty-eight years ago, we didn't know the sorrow we would share.

We didn't know the people who would walk out of our lives never to return.
We didn't know we would grieve ten children, conceived of our love, born out of due season.

We didn't know the friends and family we would say goodbye to at the cemetery.

We didn't know.

Twenty-eight years ago, we didn't know the laughter we would share.

We didn't know about the inside jokes.

We didn't know about the hilarious mishaps.

We didn't know about our children's and grandchildren's antics.

We didn't know.

Twenty-eight years ago, we didn't know the struggles we would share.

We didn't know he would kiss me goodbye 15 times to watch me wheeled off into an operating room leaving him to hope all was okay.

We didn't know we would experience five adoptive homestudies and stand before three different judges to prove we were capable of being parents.

We didn't know he would pastor small churches and that we would always scrape to make ends meet.

We didn't know.

Twenty-eight years ago, we didn't know the joys we would share.

We didn't know about the joy we would experience as we held our first daughter and looked into her bright beautiful eyes.

We didn't know about six children who weren't born under my heart, but in both our hearts. (Adoption is great. Both parents experience labor.)

We didn't know about the grandchildren and how much each of them would find an instantaneous home in our hearts and minds.

We didn't know.

Twenty-eight years ago, we didn't know the love we would share.

We had no idea that with every sorrow, every laugh, every stuggle, and every joy, our love for each other would grow.

We didn't know that after twenty-eight years, we would wake up next to each other and still be overwhelmed with the love we had for each other.

We didn't know we could love another person so much.

We didn't know.

Looking for Help from Ministry Wives

Last September, in this post, I mentioned that I want to work on an encouraging book for pastor's wives. I'm starting to do some research for this book and I need some help. If you the wife of someone who is either in the ministry (doesn't have to be full time) or someone who is training for the ministry and you are willing to help, then please email me at just2terri@gmail.com .

Thanks.