When I started writing on this blog a year ago, I had no idea how a patch of sunlight would find its way through the dark canopy of my fears. Expose a rare flower in the High Calling, blooming generosity on the forest floor of my writing life. Its petals lying open handed, fragrance of Christ.
This group of writers, they offer the loaf of communion, one encouraging bite at a time.
As writers, we find the place to pull the cork on words huddled in the corner of gate 14B among the empty vinyl seats. Spread out on a café table infused with espresso in its cracks. Under the glow of fluorescent between jeans hanging in rows and robes on hooks. In a dimly lit room of shallow breath, lying beside the rise and fall of life we bore.
We pour paragraphs like coffee from a carafe, brewed early, left warm on the counter. Craft words of worried ways and welcome wandering. String sentences of settling in and spilling out. Wonder if what swirls in the cup will taste good, leaving them thirsty for more.
Inspiration scribbles into journals lying beside soppy cutting boards of ripe tomatoes, idle at the red light on the way to carpool. And in the midst of flipping hamburgers on the grill, we realize that writing is more than endless laundry piles. It’s a lover our heart yearns for the moment we part.
But we win the battles of the mind in the company of our kindred kind.
At Laity Lodge, we pass tea carafes and lemon poppy seed loaf boards pondering our place on the grassy shore among the five thousand and baskets of bread. Some of us stand beside Jesus passing out bread to their hungry group of fifty. Others wait along the fringe, uncertain about their place among eager crowds; worry there won’t be enough to feed everyone.
And the quiet waters of the Frio seep into the empty cracks life has worried into the soul with the words of wisdom gathered around the table. We claim victory over platforms and page views, agents and proposals, self-doubt and sorrow in the warm embrace of a fellow sojourner.
Because In the words of Ashley Cleveland, “It’s really about the people, it’s always about the people.” And all the way to heaven, is heaven.
While writing becomes oxygen to the soul squeezed tight with the cares of life, relationship with Him, with you, it’s the muse pulsing words to life.
I follow those who walk before me, stepping over boulders to sit on limestone terraces. Rest under cypress arms bent over Madeline L’Engle and Eugene Peterson stretched out with pen and prose in days gone by. Imagine their toes dangling in the water.
And I let go of needing to know all the answers about my future. Because this life He serves in the smorgasbord of options, it truly is a high calling. I’ll let him fill my plate, one meal at a time.
I’ll be writing here every day for the month of October on the practice of letting go. Because really, it seems to be a sacred echo in my life – letting go of what keeps me from walking in freedom. Perhaps it is for you too.
We’ve started our journey sitting together on a limestone terrace, watching the rainfall on the Frio and who knows where we’ll end up. Maybe that’s part of letting go, not having a map or a final destination.
I know, it makes me a little nervous too.
I hope you’ll join me each day for a short story as a reflection to start your day. You can link back to this page to find each post, in case you miss one or several.
If you are a writer, you can join the community of 31 Dayers. I invite you to link up a story you wrote on the theme of letting go in the comments on Friday of each week in October. I look forward to reading your words.