i am a writer

i was grumpy and husband came running in for camera, three boys jumping jolly in living room, their mothers applauding and me hiding wrinkled on bedcloth being eye-wet and wishing-shooting-star.

i am a writer. i write articles and get paid for them. and i write books, and my agent markets them. and i paste the slips on my walls, rejections staring ugly, and i remind myself that so-and-so had so-many-slips before... and i can barely walk into a library for all of the spines standing straighter than mine, all of the names that have made it onto shelves, and somewhere along the way i've lost it.

the glee of running fast into bedroom for camera, to capture the smiles of three boys jumping high on living room floor.

and i hear his whisper as it always comes, like lover's breath, and it's gentle but the words are hard, and he says, "make him your number one ministry." him. my boy. future man. the one made of womb and blood.

"and i will bless your dreams."

do i trust God in this? do i trust him enough to close my laptop and make moment matter? do i trust him enough to.stop.trying. and pick up camera and shoot point blank?

i do. and so, i scribble across my child's life in love-ink. leaving the books and the articles until he sleeps, milk-breath against blanket, until i cannot see the rejection slips for the night-black.




and my 1000 gifts continue...

51. son blowing bubbles in bathtub
52. a husband who makes me rest
53. tennis with friends
54. wicker baskets and knick-knacks for new house at Goodwill
55. chocolate oh-henry-squares
56. watermelon dripping pink
57. renters for house in ontario
58. new canvas
59. my father's generosity
60. my God's love-whisper