Day 9 | Writing Today
Lindy and I have funny places to meet up. Her kitchen table is a place we always go, but today it was an east coast airport. We talked about going to an island in the sun and adventuring on a sailboat together, living adventures, and continuing on this funny treasure hunt that God set us on when we were fourteen years old.
We are planning an adventure soon, and it is fun to dream about what it will look like.
Sailboats | Reagan National Airport
We wished we had a sailboat,
how we long for the sea.
There is something steeped in mystic,
along a dream to be free.
We named our sailboat Be;
She sails on till dawn.
She treads the water lightly.
Alone, she sings her song.
The Sea gave us a calling
when we dreamed in a plea,
a place called home forever,
some say Eternity.
Steadfast | CVG > ORD
"Can I ask you when you started writing?" the man next to me asked. I had just told the flight attendant that coffee with two cream would be wonderful, so I suppose it was one of those transition times when people strike up conversations.
I had just been blasting "How Far I'll Go" from the Moana movie that Margaret, Allie and I saw in for $5.99 in Hamilton the night before until I had to put my phone in airplane mode.
"Come, Holy Spirit," I prayed as I wrote about some of my fiction pieces that have been jumping in my mind lately. He asked me, and well I explained my paper tower, assortment of pens, and methods to stay sane. I got serious about writing when I was nineteen, but it really started when I was in fourth grade when one day my dad came home from Springfield with a beautiful, brown leather-bound journal. I guess he noticed how I would type on the old Dell in the downstairs office.
He began telling me about his thirteen-year-old son who is a fellow scribbler. He has some learning difficulties, and he struggles to express himself. He gets lost in his books for hours and scribbles on page after page. Camden tells his dad that he can write when he cannot speak.
"Put it together," he said. "Write it in a book."
"Maybe I shall someday," I replied looking at the familiar hieroglyphics.
When telling stories, it quickly becomes apparent to true story tellers who the Author is. there are plot twists that we never would have written and characters that we never would have introduced, but often we find ourselves on planes, attempting to keep up with our own pens.
I went to bed anxious last night because I started pretending that I told the stories, but mine were full of fear that I would not write it write. His are full of peace and trust.
Bruce was his name; my new friend next to me was Denver-bound and eager to see the mountains. His wife runs the children's ministry at church, and they live in their dream house, and they have similar stories that they did not write but lived.
He ended up teaching Sunday school yesterday morning, and he ended up telling in his last minute lesson about the man who is painting their house now.
"The Lord is steadfast... steadfast," he said. Bruce went further to say that He uses every piece of pain, every thread of story, and every cloud of confusion to tell His. "Our stories are not our own," he said. "Write yours in a book, Frankie."
"The Lord is steadfast... steadfast, and wherever your travels take you today, it was a joy to meet you, Frankie," he said. "Write yours in a book. He is steadfast... steadfast."
May God bless you, Bruce.