A letter to the Editor

My soul is a book
and the pages are curled on the edges,
for my story is well known and well read.
So much so that if I were to look
upon it from Your eyes, I could see
the days of my life on which you look
fondly and say "That's my girl..."

Because those are the days you remember
and turn to when I'm losing the plot,
you remind me of who I am,
and skip unending paragraphs of who I am not.

Oh Author Eternal, what will my ending be?
Will I be a hero when I reach eternity?
If dog-eared pages and scribbled notes are all markers in me,
Let me be a journal, my empty pages left for thee.

You Stay Calm- A Short Story I Wrote For Class That I Really Actually Like

It’s been 3 years since the power went out. Well, the whole thing started long before that, but it’s been 3 years since we lost all power. Everyone was expecting some big cataclysmic thing to happen, but there was no cataclysm. Just a war, a normal war, just like the ones we’ve been fighting since someone dared to set foot in our country and poke the bear. After that, we just went after everyone, like a nerdy kid who cracks from all the bullying and goes on a rampage.  We did the worldwide equivalent of beating the bully to a pulp,  but it was only when we’d  already done the damage that we realized we were hurting ourselves in the process. By that point, we’d used our alliances to their limits, the rest of the world was sick of us, and the country was in an uproar. The people rebelled, the government was overthrown, and the one that took over was no better.  Our economy collapsed completely, we went broke so quickly the rest of the world went with us.

            Now there’s nothing. There’s no government, no taxes, no schools, no healthcare. For the first few months, everything just dissolved into raiding. Parents robbed toy stores to placate their hungry children, teenagers stole from computer stores to beef up their gaming systems thinking somehow they would be able to run again. There were old people lying in the streets, crying out to passersby to help them, gasping for air and coughing without medicine or care. People were dying from starvation when there were open fields all around them, full of crops. No one knew how to function without supermarkets and restaurants. It was total and complete chaos but somehow, we got past it. Everyone just got tired, we were hungry for order, so we just created our own. People only stole what they needed; seeds, hoes, shovels, all the equipment to become self-sufficient. People migrated out of the cities to the country, and then they started to live.

I was just a kid when the War was going, so I barely remember the life before this. I remember the end of it, but even that seems like it’s fading away. I remember life getting harder and days when we only had power for a couple hours.  I remember my Mom leaving us when I was too small to tell her to stop. I remember when I was 5, I would sit and watch cartoons while I could, only to have them interrupted by a death count or a nationwide warning. I remember I would start to cry, but then my Dad would come in, scoop me up, turn off the TV and take me outside.

“Do you see those trees? The big ones across the road?” My Dad would say as he sat me on his knee.

“Y-yeah..” I would reply, sniffling into his shirt collar.

“They’ve been around for more than 200 years, that’s how they got so big. There was a war a lot like this one when those trees were as little as you.  Now, can trees run away when they’re afraid?”

“No, Daddy! That’s silly!” I would giggle through my tears.

“So do you know what they do when they’re afraid? They stand very still, and let the wind blow through their leaves. So you do the same thing, when you’re afraid, you stand still and take deep breaths. You stay calm.”

I was 14 the next time Dad had to remind me of this. It had been 2 years since the government was overthrown, and we’d tried to set up other systems, but they’d all failed. All the money was gone, and the stock market had broken up completely. It was the start of the Chaos. As Dad and I stood outside my closed school, I started breathing shallow and tearing up. He looked over to me, and wrapping his arms around my shoulders whispered “You stay calm.”

I closed my eyes against the panic, and went back to being a kid on the porch. I felt the breeze and ignored the shouting. When I opened my eyes again, we were in the car. We drove straight home, and we became like the trees across the road. We didn’t leave home, we let the wind blow over us. Dad taught me to hunt, we started a farm and bought a couple of chickens.  He taught me to be strong, but he also taught me to love people.

There was a time at the end of the Chaos when people just started stealing from any house they came across. One night, I heard someone in our storage shed while I was sleeping, and I woke up and ran out with my gun. I held it straight at the back of the intruder’s chest, but then I heard Dad’s voice, speaking softly from behind me.

“You could just ask.” His tone was almost joking, but it had a hint of seriousness to it. The thief turned around and looked down my gun barrel, his eyes widened in fear and shock, all previous bravado fading. He looked from me to my Dad, and then back to me. My Dad said nothing, he didn’t reach out to touch me to tell me to put the gun down, he just stood behind me. The only thing I could see was the man’s face and his eyes shimmering. It was one of those times you know your Dad has something he wants you to do, but he wants you to choose it yourself.

I stood there, stubborn and scared. I couldn’t back down now…

But I had to.

I took a breath and lowered my arms, and every muscle in the man’s face released. Tears made tracks down his face, and he dropped the vegetables and walked past me towards Dad.

“Thank you, thank you sir. You saved my life.” He sobbed, shaking his hand.

“Don’t thank me, thank my daughter. She let you go… I made you turn, she could’ve shot you right then.” Dad said, perplexedly. The man turned and looked at me then back at Dad.

“Thank you, little girl. You’re very kind.” He said, seemingly just to satisfy Dad’s wishes.

“She is not a little girl, she is an adult. Now, take those vegetables and go.” Dad’s tone had changed. He was strict now, pushing the man off our property.

Needless to say, that was the last we saw of any scavengers.

I wasn’t in school anymore, I was running a farm, feeding myself and I even started to trade with others in town. There were a lot of things my Dad put on me, teaching me and making me into the person I am. He put me in charge of our valuables, I was the one who bought our cows and our horse. He trusted me more than our neighbors trusted their kids, because he was pushing me out into the world, preparing me to be my own person. It was almost like he felt the winds coming like the trees seemed to.

It was a month after my 18^th birthday,  I was in the house, counting canned vegetables so I could know what we needed for the winter when I heard him screaming. I dropped the paper I held and ran outside to see him bolting across the field. He was running faster than I’d ever seen him run, coughing and hacking.

“There’s a tornado. Megan, get in the cellar, I’ll grab the things we need out here. Just get it lit and get the animals inside.”

“But they’re not going to go! The stupid cows might not even get up!” I was screaming now. The storm was close enough to see the trees bending. I was terrified.

“Just do it! Get down and stay calm!”
             Exasperated, I ran from him and grabbed as many of the chickens as I could catch and threw them in the storm door. The cows struggled with me, but I eventually got them to their feet and they followed me down the ramp, mooing all the way into the basement. I locked them in the emergency pens and lit the kerosene lamps. Running back up, Dad pushed my horse through the door, fighting to calm him. I patted his mane and shushed him, finally able to coerce him into his stall. Then I waited.

I could hear the wind pulling at the house, creaking and groaning, fighting the urge to crack completely. Dad had dropped bags of crops in the door but hadn’t come down himself yet. Each time, I’d asked if he wanted help, he told me to stay. So I stayed. I waited. I closed my eyes against any fear, until I heard the door creak open and then slam shut. My eyes snapped open, and I looked to see Dad sliding down with one last bag cradled in his arms.

“I almost thought you weren’t going to make it.” I said running to hug him, my eyes aching and my breath catching in a hard knot. I wasn’t going to cry. For once, I was going to stay calm. Then the bag in his arms moved. I looked down at the bundle, and wrapped in an old hoodie was a baby. “Where did you get a baby?!” I shouted, causing her to erupt in a screech.

“Doesn’t matter, the parents are coming. Wanted me to get her inside. They needed to unload from their truck, in the ditch.” Dad said all of this between gasps for air. He was fighting for composure and that only set me more on edge. My eyes were brimming with tears and I was fighting the anger off. We didn’t have room for another family with all their crap and a screaming baby. I did not want any of this. I had fire rising in my chest and I felt it in my face, and then came the banging.

Dad gave me a look. The same look he gave me at school before the Chaos, the same look I heard in his voice when I had a man’s life in my hands. Then he looked down at the baby. She was squirming and crying louder than before, needing to be held close. Dad’s eyes looked up to meet mine, and my tears started to fall. I had to help. I opened my arms and took her from him, and he smiled and ran to the storm door. I could hear the Mother yelling down, barely audible over the wind. A man’s arm hung over the edge, covered in blood. Dad gestured furiously towards me, telling her to get inside as he tried to pull the man in, but then the wind picked up.

The door slammed shut on the woman, and it fell with a thud on Dad’s head. One of the lamps fell to the ground and the ramp was shrouded in near darkness. I squinted, and saw he had slumped and fallen to the bottom. I laid the little girl in a pile of blankets that was going to be my bed then ran over to him. Tearing the sleeve off at the shoulder, I wrapped parts of my flannel shirt around his wounded head. There was a lot of blood, but I couldn’t focus on that. I had to keep him alive. I ran through everything I knew of first aid, I kept him breathing and didn’t let him sleep. I sat by him all night, holding the baby in my arms, feeding her what I thought she could eat from our stores and singing.

When morning came, my eyes shot open from the ray of light peeking through the storm door. Dad instinctively moved an arm to shield his face, but I told him to stay still and not to touch his head. I stepped around him, climbing toward the light. I pushed the door open, and there was no sign of anyone. The man and woman were gone, the only trace of their presence marked with frantic bloodstained handprints. Their truck was tipped over in the road. The tree that had pinned them was thrown against the line of trees from my childhood.  I took a breath, and I went back inside to pick up the baby. She was left to me now, and I made a wish for her. I wished for her to be strong, but light. I gave her a name, Amelia Avery.

That was the day I became what my Dad always spoke over me, and what he still says over me when Amie gives me trouble. When she has nightmares, he wakes me up and points me toward the door with a smirk. And just like he did when I was her age, I scoop her up, take her outside in my arms, and point her to the trees.

“You just stand still and breathe. You stay calm.”

Whispers and Shouts.

When I was only a baby, the devil came to my mom.
One night when she was doing dishes, he whispered to her.
"You see your little 'gift from God' ? That precious little girl?
Well, I'm going to take her. I'm going to make her MINE."
Well, my mom, she's a fighter, and she didn't listen to his lies.
With all the force she had in her, she slammed her hands down and said "NO."
She claimed the force of my name over my life, and asked God to make it so.

"Gabrielle"-Strong Woman of God, or so the sites say.
And for 21 years, I've had that name. I've heard repeatedly the claim that GOD IS YOUR STRENGTH!
But I didn't let it take.

You see, I was a shy kid, and I covered it up with a punk mentality,
with a look of discontent and a tendency to only speak loudly when arguing.
But when those layers are stripped away, all that's left is a little girl,
Hiding in the shadows with her arms drawn up close so she can't be seen,
trying not to be noticed, least of all for her being.

I'm not talking about my body, but my soul.
I had this idea that if someone saw it grow, that'd make me start to fake it.
Like a native with a camera, I thought a glimpse would take it.
and so I hid it.
I buried my soul under layers of fear,
I hid the little sapling from the light for close to 6 years, and it withered away.

So I'd sit in worship and wonder why I felt nothing.
I'd sit and pray and wonder why I wasn't hearing anything but the negativity.
The voice that said to me "You've damned yourself with your sins, you little fake.
You play all perfect in the light, but look what little dark it takes to make you ugly."
All I saw was ugly. There was no joy in the little cell I'd made myself.
Bound up on every side by a black nothing.
A sucking hole I poured my purpose into, and I slept, lulled to sleep by it's incessant deathly humming.
"You see your little gifts from God, now see how far they go.
I've taken all your light away, and pretty soon you'll know...
YOU'RE MINE."

OH BUT THAT STUPID LITTLE LIE. How flimsy it proved to be,
when the girl who once stood silent in the dark,
now finds her voice and screams
"THE ONLY STUPID THING I'VE EVER BELIEVED WAS THAT YOU HAD CLAIM TO ME!"
And in one fell swoop the curse is broken, and now I am set free.
Now I'm shining in the light the Devil kept so long from me.

"Create in me..."

"Create in me a pure heart, O God..."- Psalm 51:10a 

Create in me. 

3 simple words we always seem to breeze right over so we can get to the next part. Most of the time, when I read it, I think this verse is all about the pure heart bit. I think as a result, I've missed out on something I've needed to know for a long time.

So often, we say "God Created us" and while this is true as a general statement ( God created humanity "in the beginning"), grammatically, I think there is a huge breakdown when we try to say "God created me." God did NOT "create" me (past tense), He is, however CREATING me. He gave me my form from the start, yes, but my heart, my mind, my personality, my soul is a constant job that will continue until I die.

God did not set his pen down when my life began and say "I'm done." No, he put me into this world and stopped to watch.  He gave me free will, He gave me a mind and a soul that longs for Him. He gives me all the pieces I need, then He allows me to try to put the puzzle together myself. Then, like the Father He is, He sits down with me and shows me how to do it, even if He ends up doing all the work himself.

David understood this. David made a mess of his life, but he recognized that he was still a work-in-progress, and that's what I need to learn. God is still working on me, putting me together and fixing what I put together wrong.

He's not done with me yet.

Contentedness

For a long time now, I've been trying to be content.
But I guess all that time I wasn't sure what that meant.
Like, being content meant that I had to be smiling all the time.
Like being content meant I had to say everything just right.
Like being content meant being happy, being numb, being saintly.
But that just isn't me.

I'm a saint, I mean, that's what Jesus said, I guess.
But I don't have a peaceful mind when I lay down my head.
My thoughts go a million miles an hour in any direction but rest.
And those never ceasing thoughts, well, they tug at my flesh.
They water all my worries until they start to sprout
They call every last one of my mistakes out like fouls
They flash images from my past to the inside of my eyelids,
 and if that won't work, they just switch tactics until they find one that sticks.

"Who's gonna love you when they know where you've been?"
and just like that, my eyes are open again.
I lay face-up and my heart pounds in my chest,
and I think "There's no way I could ever be content."
Because being content means to be alright, right?
And how can I ever be alright?
I just wanna dig a hole and shove all of me inside
cover it up and forget it.
forget it.
Just forget and be content.

Because being content means to forget right?
It's ignoring the fact that there was ever a fight.
That just seems insane to me!
How could I ever forget suffering?
Maybe that's not what I need,
Maybe its not about everything being right,
Maybe it's seeing there's a tree after the death of the seed.

For a long time now, I've been learning about being content.
Now I'm reaching a time when I'll learn what Jesus meant.
He said "it is finished" and put down his head,
and I think in that moment, he was content.
He swallowed every drop of suffering
but he did it for beautiful things only he knew,
He suffered for the sake of a glory that is all surpassing.
And he asks nothing more of me than to suffer through
and find contentedness in his beauty, and in the things he has for me to do.

Life Inside My Head #1

(Some of these are old reflections, but they mostly relate to what's going on with me now. This isn't a super spiritual post. it's more about my insecurities.)

• Sometimes I wonder why I write. 
• This thing has always been secondary to the other stuff I do, but I feel like it gives me the most catharsis from my problems.
• It's a prayer for me. I communicate with Jesus through this stuff, and I think the inspiration I get comes from the Spirit. I can't stop. It keeps me going.
• But at the same time (next)
• Sometimes I wonder if anyone other than God, my family and my church family cares about what I have to say.

• There is so much pent up in this head of mine, and writing is one of the best ways for me to get it out, but no one ever discusses things with me. I want to know I'm not the only one who thinks like I do, going into the artistry of it and the poetry of a day.
• I get the feeling people think I'm really really dim or inexperienced and whatever. I hate feeling like people think I'm stupid.
• I feel like others don't have any faith in me, other than the ones that have to because I am in some way an investment of theirs. Like they have a stake in my success, if I fail they fail.
• I have a couple people who pour into me that have no stake in my success, and that's so special to me, but more often than not, I'm just there to people.
• I'm not asking to have people just blindly appreciate my existence, I want to MEAN SOMETHING to someone. Not just romantically, but...
• Sometimes, I wonder if anyone will find me beautiful in anything but a platonic way.
• I hate the fact that this bugs me so much.
• Is there a tinge of Narcissism in this? probably.
• Yeah, I know the Christian answer to this. "God made you, and you are a precious creation of his." I KNOW. I realize this.
• is it wrong that sometimes this isn't enough?
• Does that mean I have less faith in God? No, it's just different.
• Statistically, I KNOW someone will, eventually. But for right now, at this minute, I need someone to say that I am not beyond hope.
• Right now, I'm trying not to focus on this as much. I realize my value is not found in romance.
• Sometimes I wonder if it's okay to think the way I do.
• Is it okay to be harsh and brutally honest?
• Would I still be so honest if I knew people would take offense?
• Sometimes I wonder why I'm so socially incapable
• I feel like I'm loud and annoying, but at the same time, quiet and I don't contribute anything worthwhile.
• I feel totally incapable of making friends apart from people who are brought into my life by others or by circumstances.
•  I WANT that. I want to feel like people want to be around me, not that they have to be.

Premonitions of Nostalgia.

Up before the sun again,
Damp and uncomfortable from the morning dew
with a busted knee and dirty feet.
Across the tent my dad sleeps,
but I decide to let him instead of begging for company.

It's only me, God and Leanor's poems
that and the nagging urge for reflection.
After all, I've been up since before 6
and all I'm left with are my thoughts.

Across the tent, Dad rolls over.
Just awake enough to free himself from the sleeping bag,
but not freed from the unending exhaustion.
I just go back to writing.

I have no regrets this weekend
I just wish I had done a little more,
Prayed a little longer, Worshipped a little harder,
laughed until I coughed up dust, spoke more boldly,
Cried more, honestly.

I've gotten too good at holding back tears
Tears for friends I'll never see again,
              Friends I'll miss until next August rolls around,
              Friends I've just met.
Tears for the busted knee,
Tears it's not more busted so I'd have a battle scar to tell my stories about and look at to remember.
Tears I didn't seek God more,
Tears that my heart still needs perfecting, and I can't crack the layers of rock
that make me so very good at holding back tears.
                                                                                        I guess those are regrets.
Well, now, tears I can't be painfully honest about myself
without covering it up with some quip to keep myself from feeling vulnerable.

Oh God, I'm so afraid of myself.
Of the person I am beneath the layers of the person I want to be.
God, Let's bury that person.
Let's keep the positive and throw out the negative.
Teach me to be brutally honest, teach me love.

The sun peeks over the mountain. 7:30 AM.
I wipe away a tear and my dad drowsily asks me to get the car so we can leave.
There it is. The final note of finality.
It's really done.
So I get up, find the keys, and leave the tent.
As I begin to walk through the mountain road to the car, I wipe away a tear.
A tear of resolution and a premonition of Nostalgia.