Why write? (Making Lists #1)

Why Write?

“I haven’t written for a few days because I wanted first of all to think about my diary.

It’s an odd idea for someone like me to keep a diary; not only because I have never done so before, but because it seems to me that neither I – nor for that matter anyone else – will be interested in the unbosomings of a thirteen-year-old schoolgirl.

Still, what does that matter?

I want to write, but more than that, I want to bring out all kinds of things that lie buried deep in my heart.” 

 Anne Frank (Diary Entry Posted Saturday, 20 June, 1942 from The Diary of a Young Girl)

Tragically, Anne Frank died three months before her sixteenth birthday, but those things once buried deep in her heart invite us to remember, to ponder, and to dig deeper into our own, discovering the magnitude of the moments that soon become our memories. Anne wrote what she thought, not what she thought she should, and “the unbosomings of a thirteen-year-old schoolgirl” continue to matter.

Like Anne, I unwind by writing, loving the freedom to stumble across God in a way that I haven’t seen him before.  And in that discovery, I’ve come to appreciate the value of who I am. A flawed woman loved by her perfect God. And that’s miraculous. And it matters.

To me, God sometimes seems to hover out of grasp, a hopeful glimmer of possibility; by writing, I’ve discovered He’s always more real than that vague awareness. As I unveil those hidden things in my own heart, by rambling and wondering and poking around, I’ve discovered God’s omnipresence, one of his many immutable characteristics. A discovery based on my experiences, not from what I was told. And that matters.

I know there are more of us, too, who want to write but wonder, like Anne, if it matters. Who wonder if it’s an odd idea to write. Who wonder if anyone would be interested. And then once the desire is strong enough, even wonder how to start, how to begin pouring out those “things that lie buried deep” in our hearts.

Pastor Robert Stutes shared a fail-proof Bible study method recently at church:  “Just do it!” The Nike method works for Bible study, and it applies to writing, too, for writing doesn’t have to be a prosaic chronological pronouncement of the facts of our lives, which would, in fact, be tedious and not necessarily all that interesting or introspective. Mine, anyway. I haven’t had to hide from the Nazis like Anne Frank or live in fear of concentration camps. But what isn’t mundane is the delightful discoveries of the divine in the details of our lives. Epiphanies to celebrate, not simply lessons to endure. And then always there’s that lovely surprise when God reveals himself in the process of writing. And that matters, too.    

Anne Frank wondered who would possibly care about the musings of a teenage girl. We don’t wonder. Her life continues to speak to us 70 years later. And our musings are equally valuable.

Why write? I say, “Why wait?” And here are a few suggestions to help you begin:

IDEA #1 – Make LISTS, a good way to awaken a memory 

Today, make a LIST of every home you’ve lived in, then choose one of those places and write about it.   

Here’s how my LIST would go…(I’d work backwards because that’s easier for me.)

1. My home now -- our 1907 rust-colored frame house on N. Cummings Street (for 30 yrs)
2. Grey trailer house behind our historical home  (for some reason we thought we could remodel the 1907 house ourselves)
3. Old white house on highway next to beer joint (after we moved to Bellville)
4. West Belt apt Houston when first married to Ian (had a caller/stalker)
5. Parents’ two-story Moorberry house in Houston (a year before Ian and I married)
6. Apt. on Lover’s Lane in Dallas (where there was a serial rapist running around)
7. Apt. on Prestonwood Central (when I first moved to Dallas)
8. Aunt’s home in Richardson (for a month while waiting for apt.)
9. S. Gessner apt (while working in Houston after college)
10. Yikes – 1974 to 77  -- numerous apts in College Station
11. Room 106 Krueger A&M 1973 (next door to the girl who had the baby in the dorm)
12. Moorberry home again (1970 to 73 -- 3 years high school)
13. Daddy Bill’s house on Mona Lee Houston after mother married my step-father (3 months misery)
14. Big house on Austin Street in BELLVILLE (Daddy died while we were remodeling)
15. Crack-house looking apt across from Gana in Bellville (summer while I had mono and parents were working on Austin Street house)
16. Green Concordia Drive house (loved that neighborhood; kids everywhere)
17. Little white house on Hempstead Highway  (4 or 5 years old)
18. One more house in Bellville near O’Bryant Elem, but too young to remember it.

OK! That was an eye-opener for me because my written list was a lot longer than the way I pictured it. So now I’m going to pick the one place that made the strongest impression while I was jotting, and I’ll write about that place and see what pops up!

And while scribbling my thoughts, I’m not going to concern myself with making it perfect. I’m going for discovery, not perfectionism, which is not our friend when we’re free-writing.

So let’s do it! Pick one and write! Avoid trying to dictate the direction, just go with the flow and see what you discover. Write like Johnny Football plays ball, giving it all he’s got! It’ll be fun! Here we go! 

I Remember…

LISTING – a great way to begin!

Because I Could

I thought I was going to die.

So I sat in my white rocker on the grey front porch of our 105-year-old ancestral cottage home -- because I could. And I loved every minute of it. Every sight, every sound, every smell. The touch of the breeze whistling through the two tall pines as the sun shone through them, leaving shadowed candy-cane stripes on the green lawn. The zooming of the traffic traveling to and from Walter’s Pharmacy on the other side of our hand-carved white picket fence. The faint fruity fragrance from the pink Belinda’s dream roses in my garden that Ian had recently resurrected from neglect. For that one life-exploding moment, I was overwhelmed with the vibrant, energizing, grateful feeling of being fully alive, luxuriating and delighting in the gift of life. Because I could.     

Life with its noise and clamor and clatter, but also its stillness. The hush. The silence. The sweet sound of tranquility surrounding me. And the peaceful beauty of listening in the quiet for the soft whisper of God in my softened heart. Not hearing him, but knowing he was there. His touch on my soul more powerful than any sight or smell or sound. His grip on my life more comforting than any daily permanence around.

Birth and death are two absolutes for us all, but for me the powerful days between a CAT scan and scopes and suspicious areas in my throat and then surgery and a surgeon’s smile and a sigh when hearing the benign report, I lived a full, grateful, blessed life.  

I remember sitting with Ian the Sunday before my surgery and listening to Pastor Stutes as he described the servants’ reaction when they realized Jesus had turned the water to wine before their very eyes. Their only reaction to what Jesus could do was amazement! And I was amazed, too, as the Bible verse “stand in awe of God” crossed my heart as He spoke to me in the church pew just as He had on my front porch. And I joined the servants, amazed at what God can do because of who He is. And grateful for the gift of the day, a thankful time to “stand in awe” as God orchestrates the world, yet keeps a profound grip on each one of our lives. Really, really amazing, our God.   

And I remember singing the lovely hymns I had grown up singing – “Lead on, Oh King Eternal” and “Leaning on the Everlasting Arms,” two songs which once seemed ancient,  but now seemingly sung just to me, and I thought, “If you’re leading me home, Lord, continue to fill me each day with an expectant amazement of what I’m going to see -- excitement about seeing Jesus face to face, the throne which will defy my earthly imagination, the thrill of seeing Daddy after 45 years, the delight of a life that will surpass the wonderful one I’ve already known, and your own unfathomable love for me.” God, who sets “eternity in the human heart,” gives gifts that “will endure forever.” And I worshiped through song. Because I could.   

Yet in the midst of my peace, I also remember emotionally scribbling a note to Ian -- “I’m scared” -- and my strong husband immediately inserting “not” in the middle of those two words.  My husband’s strength is another gift for which I’m grateful. I love that we were friends before we married, and I love that we still are. I love that he holds my hand even after 33 years and opens my door almost every time we get in a car. I love that we were wild and crazy when we were younger and now firmly committed to God in our later years. I made a lot of mistakes in my youth, but Ian Edward Bader was not one of them, and I appreciate many things about him. A man who avoids idle chit-chat, he said exactly the right word to me that day:  one small word which was another way God brought me deep peace. And I remember thanking God for the gift of Ian, who would continue to hold my hand through the worst of whatever might come.   

I prayed and pondered during those powerful days before my surgical procedure, and God answered my prayers. And as the days drew closer to the operating room, I kept imagining Jesus and all those angels.  Defies imagination, really. God filled me with the excitement of expectation and kept the fear of pain at bay. Dying doesn’t scare me; pain does. And I wanted to do it right, and I remember praying that prayer, too: “Lord, if this is it, help me to do it right. To bring glory to you.” That was the legacy I wanted to leave behind for my kids. And I also prayed passionately for Ian and Reid and Will and Melissa and those I love so much. I didn’t want to waste time regretting what I might miss, but spend my time praying for those who would miss me. Somehow, God is able to keep us from missing out on what we think we’ll miss. I don’t know how, but I know He can do it. And we’ll be amazed, just like the servants, when we arrive in His Presence and see for ourselves. So I prayed a lot. Because I could.   

And for a woman who doesn’t sleep, I slept. And dreamed contentedly. So maybe a little of that was the prescribed Valium, but I slept!  Because I could.  

When a specialist tells you there are areas that need to be biopsied because they are suspicious, you get suspicious about what he is not saying. You keep a stiff upper lift, but also a stiff upper back, refusing to slouch, refusing to give in to a heaviness that threatens to weigh you down. But you wonder and worry and wait, and you pretend you’re not doing any of those things. But I learned that you also pray like you’ve never prayed before – not simply for healing, but because you can. And you ask others to pray for you, too, because God gifts us with the presence of each other. Because He can.     

With God’s gracious gift of benign results, I’ve stopped pouring Tide in the Clorox dispenser and putting on two bras at the same time! I’ve stopped leaving the dog on the front porch instead of in his pen, and I’ve quit talking about putting the dishes in my electric rollers. The preoccupation I was carrying around has faded somewhat even though my normal crazy behavior remains. But my changed prayers continue.  

I pray that I’ll be more sensitive to worried faces and moist eyes and bitten lips. That I’ll watch for quivering chins and avoided glances and distracted friends, and that I’ll stop rushing by others without touching a shoulder or patting a back or smiling from my heart. That I’ll also respond with sincerity to a face book posting or an email prayer request. I pray I’ll be more aware of those who are struggling to rejoice for the good fortune of friends when their own future looks distressingly glum. I pray to pay more attention. Because I can.  

For a few days, I thought my time was up.  

But with the strange melancholy that accompanied those days came a lovely and accepting peace. With the flood of memories, an inundation of gratefulness. With the fullness of the moment, a reminder that we have a specific number of days to accomplish what God would have us do on this earth. And those days are a gift – a time to learn what peace can be, a time to trust God more than our own emotions, a time to live better and more appreciatively. A time to stay utterly enchanted with God and the worlds he created – the one now and the one to come.  

I’m going to die. Maybe not today or tomorrow or next week, but I will die eventually. And I pray that I live my remaining years firmly facing forward in the direction of God’s grace more than I ever have before. More grateful for the moment, making the most of the gift of each day.  Loving and praying and celebrating life the way God meant for it to be lived. Because I can.  

The Belinda’s dream rose petals are fluttering through the garden right now, scattered by the wind which will always remind me of that morning I rocked on my front porch simply glad to be alive.

Because I could.

God has set eternity in our hearts.

(Ecclesiastes 3:11).