Borrowing from the Old

I’m sitting down to write because I want to write. I miss writing.

It’s been a long time for me.

Covid.

Graduating a senior in high school.

Visiting my ailing father all spring and summer.

Driving to his bedside.

Driving to his funeral.

Driving our daughter to college.

Driving right into empty nest.

Moving from our home of seventeen years.

Moving to new adventures.

Moving on from what lies behind.

Holding my breath that I don’t crash in a heap of emotions.

Holding my grandchildren as they press their chubby cheeks to mine.

Holding my husband as if he is all I have left in this nest — this empty nest. This beautiful wonderful place we now call home.

Calling my mother to check on her.

Calling to Jesus for help.

Remembering I have a blog.

Remembering it’s Domestic Awareness Month. (HOTLINE at 1.800.799.7233)

Remembering it’s Suicide Awareness Month. (LIFELINE at 1.800.273.8255)

Remembering that my voice just might make a difference to someone still wandering in the dark — nestled in between those two places of violence and suicide.


And I want to write new stories but I will borrow from the old. Because it’s been a long time. It’s been a long time since I got beat but I can still smell the fall air when I fell prey to his seductive words luring me away from what was good and wholesome. I can still hear his words stinging my skin like a slap across the face. I can still see his eyes scowl with anger and his hand curled into a fist. I can still feel the utter loneliness of planning my divorce from a man I wasn't even married to. I can still imagine a life barefoot, poor, pregnant and silented by the secrets of domestic violence housed in a dirty old trailer.

It’s been a long time. I do remember.


But I'm not that girl any more.

And you don’t have to be either.

Your journey does not have to end in ashes.

Your journey can end in beauty.

Get out. Move toward healing. Find your voice. Call to Jesus.

And just write.


Pen Over Paper

Don't ask me to speak too little

That I become silent

And useless

And my journey be in vain

Against the landscape of quiet.

Let me not speak too much

That my words become comical

And useless

And my journey be white noise

Against the landscape of confusion.

Please let me speak with a pen-over-paper

That I might become poetic

And useful

And His journey be seen in me

Against the landscape of His Word.

Let Him speak through the ages

That He might become Flesh

And Spirit

And His Journey be the Truth

Against the landscape of the Way and the Light.

CjZ

a long time ago




 

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