Author (#623)February 2005 Archives

One can tell from reading some of my last entries that playing God isn’t working out for me. As my dad says, ‘I suppose you fell pretty short.’ Yes, that is true. I crashed and burned and the world said ‘Thank goodness she isn’t God!’

My fourteen-year-old friend and her boyfriend came by to see me. The rumors have turned out to be true: she is pregnant and married as of two weeks ago. They explain to me patiently, as though I am three years old, that of course the marriage is legal, the boyfriend had to sell his Play station in order to pay for the marriage certificate. I know that God came and sat with us on the back porch as we talked about their plans. The peace and confidence I felt, could not have come from within myself. I asked if I could pray over them; they responded with a quick yes, closed their eyes, and bowed their heads. For so long I have thought about how to keep her from getting pregnant, how to keep her in school, how to get her to listen about Jesus, and worst of all how to save her soul. And here she was. And I knew in that moment that all I could do, and all God wanted me to do, was to meet her there exactly where I was and exactly where she was. And then I prayed. And that’s it. After all that work, that little prayer was the most that I have ever done for her.

There is freedom in knowing that God will use me, but He doesn’t need me.

I read this post on the Red Clay Girls BLOG. It was beautiful and I love how at times I find random things that apply to where I am at.

Shaun gave me the assignment of writing a 500 word essay about three characters. I think I skimped on the third character, but I'm new to all this creative writing stuff. The object was obviously that it is hard to cause people to become connected to a character in so few words. So, here it is unedited. It's an old topic, but I hope that if I keep trying I'll get it out of my system and move on to different topics. If anyone out there is willing PLEASE offer up some constructive criticism, especially on the technical side.

Her scream jarred his teeth. He became aware that he was clenching his jaw and didn’t care. If he screamed with her or started to cry, could it possibly relieve the mass of emotions growing in his belly like a tumor. Sweat was dripping down her face over the circles of bruises around her wide tired eyes. She arched up as another contraction wracked her body. ‘Breathe! Don’t forget to breathe!’ The nurses shout made his insides lurch reminding him to attend to her. She tried to pant like told, but her exhausted body was shaking so horribly her lungs forced her air out in uncontrolled gasps. He realized that his anger at being out of control of the situation was evident to all. He didn’t give two shits! ‘Do something! Give her some pain relief or something!’ They ignored him. Another contraction came and amniotic fluid poured out. The doctor reached down lightly touching her upper thigh; she automatically let her knees drop apart. His hands slid in hurting the already tense moments. Her mind exploded with the only cohesive thought she had had so far. ‘If his hand hurts that much, how much more will the babys head.’ The jolt of fear pushed her forward, before she could think she kicked his wrist, his hand pushed out as she began to yell: ‘I can’t do this!’ The nurse trying to grab her shoulders was knocked back with a tongue lashing bad enough to make anyone blush.

He stepped forward, placing his hand carefully on her chest above her breast. She turned to throw it off. She paused: she knew this hand with its callouses that occasionally scratched her, making her scold him. The blue and green paint splotches of an artists labor that she loved to see. These fingers that he licked and rubbed on the taut canvas, blending and bleeding colors to life. She loved those hands. She even loved those damned callouses. Her grip on his hand felt as though it could crush bones. His fear forgotten as he poured his all into her. ‘It’s okay.’ He whispered. ‘I know you can do this!’ Her back relaxed as she laid back. His jaw went slack as he gazed at her belly. With his other hand he gently felt the torso and legs of his son through her slack womb. He held her knees with her as they urged her to push just on more time. She held her breath again straining so hard more bruises spidered on her face. She grunted as the doctor pulled him to her feet. He put his hands out as his son slipped out into his arms. The wetness and slime once shunned, seemed beautiful to him in its meaning life. He looked at her. His muse. His treasure. Spent and crying she reached out for her baby. Leaning his head against her he put the baby to her breast and beginning to stroke her hair whispered: ‘Let’s do that again!’

I am melancholy today. I am normally a perfectionist. You wouldn't be able to tell if you came to my house. (If I was really a perfectionist, my house would look MUCH better than it does, right?) Well, that's just not how it works. I take on everything that comes my way, and when I can't do it all I become paralyzed and accomplish not much of anything. All that to say that this post is my first that is off the fly.

I found out the day after my last post that the character in the story is pregnant. I spent a good portion of the morning crying. My helplessness overwhelms me. And little chats sound so trite and trivial. Rumor has it that she got married on Wednesday. Fourteen and married. Is that even legal?!? She won't return my phone calls.

This link was sent to me after my last post. Thanks, Kelly. When One Is Enough Also, a story by Jeremy Huggins is definitely worth looking into.

My guilt at life and shame over my faillures feels as though it is crushing me. I can't help everyone. I know that. I know so much, my head is filled with answers that just don't compute for me. How does one make answers compute? How does one live in the midst of all this? I just don't know. But I refuse to continue in complacency and materialism, while little girls are getting pregnant, and babies that are obviously alive (even to the aborters) are killed for damn convenience. I do not know how I should live, but I for sure don't want to get sucked into a comfortable bubble with goose-down-padding, so I can ignore the world.