Tag: Writing

God Never Calls U-Haul

God bless my poor neighbor Linda. She had picked the wrong time to do yard work.

It was earlier this year, about four in the afternoon on May 14th. I had just locked up our old house for the final time, taking with me the last couple of boxes of odds and ends accumulated during our thirty-two years of living there. Rick and I had already moved into our new house. 

I walked just outside the garage and pressed the four-digit code into the keypad to lower the door. The creaking sound of the garage door panels sliding over the rails and slowly inching down toward the foundation only served to rub my heart in it … “it” being the fact that this house—our home for thirty-two years—was no longer ours.

The door hit the concrete with a thud. So much noisy rattling for ten seconds and in the very next instant, silence. 

It was like the sting that comes after a after a slap.

I tried to hold back the tears, which was totally in keeping with my habit of wearing the face that says, “I’m fine.”  But the garage door closing and the sudden quiet released the catch on my emotions. My tears broke free. My breaths shortened, and I started sucking air in shorter bursts, muscles contracting from deep within my diaphragm.

My car was parked along the curb and I aimed myself in its direction. As I walked, I forced myself to keep looking straight ahead and not turn around for another look. The last thing I needed was to give my mind another opportunity to remember. Thirty-two years gives you lots to remember. I just kept moving forward down the driveway. 

That’s when I spotted Linda across the street in her front yard. 

She was wearing gardening gloves, and a baseball cap to help protect her from an unusually hot mid-May day. She saw me, too, and we waved to one another.

It crossed my mind to keep walking to my car, accompanied by my tears and heaving breaths. I could have slipped into the driver’s seat and slinked away. But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t just allow myself to wave and make that my goodbye to such a good woman. So, I crossed the street, went up to Linda, and gave her the biggest, longest, and teariest—maybe even the only—hug I had given her in the thirty-plus years we had been neighbors. I couldn’t even talk, I was crying so much. 

We had watched as each other’s kids grow up. As some families moved elsewhere, Linda and her husband and family, and Rick, me, and our family—along with other original homeowners on our street—remained. We were the Deer Path Woods old timers. Except now, we were leaving as well, to become the “new neighbors” somewhere else. And a new, young family would be moving in the next day and raising their family there just like we did. 

And I was okay with that. Really, I was. Still, I couldn’t help but feel sad and wistful about bringing those chapters of our lives to a close.

Three months have passed …

… and although the move brought some changes to our lives—some big (a new church, a new bank, some new doctors) and some small (a new dry cleaner and ice cream stand)—I can honestly say that I’ve been very much at peace with it. So much so, in fact, that I’ve asked myself, “How is that? How could I live in one place for thirty-two years, move, and almost immediately feel comfortable in my new surroundings?”

I soon understood—no, felt—the reason why. 

The reason goes beyond the fact that Rick and I feel very comfortable in our new home. There’s more to it than, once again, being blessed with wonderful neighbors. And, even though I’m thrilled for our dogs that there are many furry friends for them here in our new community, that doesn’t explain my contentment either. 

As with most things that speak to our inner selves, the explanation goes deeper than anything I can lay my eyes or hands on. And yet, I feel it as strongly as having arms wrapped around me in a tight, loving embrace. Once the following thought came to me, I felt the sweet peace of surrendering to it: 

We had moved, but God was where He’s always been, which is … right by my side.

The thought of these words, even now as I type and repeat them to myself, are such a comfort. 

In no way do I want to dismiss the sadness that moving away from family, friends, and familiar surroundings can bring. Those feelings are powerful and only ease with time. In God, though, we have someone who will navigate it all with us; we need only to keep our hearts open to Him.

This same way of thinking can be applied to so many aspects of our lives where there is change: 

  • Has a family member or friend recently been admitted to the hospital … or passed away … thereby changing who is present in your life?
  • Has a relationship in your life become strained or recently ended?
  • Have you changed jobs?
  • Are you sending a child off to college for the first time, thereby changing life as you’ve known it for the past eighteen years? (Been there, done that!)

Or something as seemingly innocuous as:

  • Has your normal route to work been closed due to construction, thereby changing and lengthening your commute?

Through any change—large or small—remember: God never calls U-Haul. God does not move or change. He is, rather, the steadiest, most loving presence in our lives. God is wherever you are.

 (Photo by Brooke Cagle on Unsplash)

Writing is my breath

It was such an incidental, fleeting moment … one that didn’t warrant special notice. And yet, I noticed. 

On the evening of May 30, 2017, my daughter, Nikky, and I attended one of the last performances by Sara Bareilles in the lead role of the musical, “Waitress,” on Broadway. Right before the curtain went up, the actors could be seen taking their places behind the somewhat sheer curtain, with an apron-wearing Bareilles front and center. The image of what I saw after she stood on her mark—in those last few seconds before the curtain would rise—captivated me. Bareilles breathed in deeply, held it for a moment … then let it go. The breath was done; she was ready. The breath was part of her preparation. 

Writing is my breath. It is my sustenance … it prepares me to take on the rest of life. To inhale is to contemplate; to exhale is to relax the shoulders, put pen to paper or fingers on the keyboard, and let go of the thoughts that burden my soul or the emotions that light up my heart. Put simply, writing clears my head and makes me feel ready for whatever comes next. 

Writing puts me in “the zone.” When I’m writing—often at Starbucks, always with instrumental music flowing through AirPods—I can tune out most anything or anyone around me, except for the occasional loud talker. I’m not a fast writer; in fact, sometimes I’m painfully slow.  

The joy—I’d go as far as to say the exhilaration—for me (and I’m sure many other writers) comes from the crafting of each sentence. Choosing words, playing with the rhythm and structure of sentences, creating interesting (but hopefully never pretentious) phrasing. There are times when I can sit for hours and never tire of the craft of writing. There are days when I might produce only a few good sentences. Other days I may leave Starbucks feeling wholly disappointed and discouraged. But I live to write another day. 

As you can tell, I’m passionate about writing, which doesn’t mean that I’m always very disciplined about it. Although I often tell myself that I should be more disciplined and have a schedule of what writing project I’m going to work on and when, I’ve yet to accomplish that. I’m pretty easily distracted and am as guilty as the next person when it comes to checking social media when I should be solely-focused on getting the writing done. I’ve started using the Freedom app on my laptop during writing sessions; it enables me to block the websites and other apps that usually tempt me when I’m online. You know the ones: Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, YouTube, Amazon. I know many of us go down the same rabbit holes. 

I get a notice on my iPhone each week telling me how much time I’ve spent using it over the previous seven days; this includes both calls and social media. I haven’t done an analysis, but I’m sure social media outnumbers my calls 3 or 4 to one. 

When I received the notice for the first time, my jaw dropped. It had to be a mistake. There was no way I had spent 4 hours and 38 minutes on my phone in a week! Subsequent weeks, each with over four hours of usage, proved me wrong and my annoying phone right. I wish I could say that most of the 4+ hours I’m on my iPhone each week is spent on Google doing research, and the Merriam-Webster Dictionary & Thesaurus app. That would be a lie. 

I’m not into following what the Kardashians are up to on the West coast, or if Justin and Hailey were spotted somewhere on the East Coast. But I am kind of sweet on following the news (despite how emotion-provoking it can be these days), and I like keeping up with family and friends on Facebook. And, being the stationery nerd that I am, there are always new pens and notebooks to check out. But my goodness … for 4 or 5 hours a week?!!! 

Now, I realize that that amount of time may be a drop in the bucket when compared with the number of hours that high school and college students—and yes, plenty of adults—rack up on their phones. But here’s the thought that drives me just a little nuts when I consider my cell phone usage: In the amount of time I’ve stared at my iPhone over the past few years, I could have written the first draft of a decent length book, or at least gotten much further on the one I’m already writing. I won’t get that time back. All I can do moving forward is pick up my phone less and my pen more. And for a stationery nerd like me, that’s a challenge I willingly accept. 

Lately, I’ve been thinking about why I feel so passionate about writing. Why has it become so important to me, especially over the past seven years as I’ve been fleshing out my memoir? Why has writing become my breath?

The answer comes down to one word: Stories. 

Now, more than ever, we need to tell our stories. We need to find the common threads of our humanity. We need to share our stories in order to provide comfort to others and find it for ourselves. We need to tell our stories as a way of saying, “I understand” and “I’m with you.” 

Each story I write breathes new life into my way of being in the world. It helps me to reflect on how I’ve made my way so far, perhaps what should change or stay the same going forward. Writing helps me get a better grasp on the “why” of things in life. 

Writing stories is also what breathes life into my connection with each of you. I pray that you hear me saying, “I understand,” and “I’m with you.” 

What is your breath? 

What’s the thing that feeds you and keeps grounded? What prepares you to take on the rest of life? If you’d like to reply and share what that is, I’d love to hear from you. 

(Photo Credit: by Unblock on Unsplash)

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Tess