You tell me in a strangled voice that you write to a god who seemed so far away and you whispered into that tiny blue notebook with the white flower petals lacing the cover, that you wished you could understand why months of blood keep coming and you pray to be a mama and you scribble frantically sometimes because Yetanesh is pregnant and she’s just a small thing, barely 14 with wide brown eyes as vacant as the Ethiopian drylands, and she knows nothing of trying and praying for a child, she still is one. And her life has been hard, you know, you’ve seen the documentaries, read the blogger trips, watched the news. You know, and this baby is going to make it harder.
And you wonder at it all even as you click to donate money that will be sent across the ocean to this child bride’s village. To the clinic that will spread a plastic sheet across a dirt floor and lay her low and bearing down hard through slim girlish hips, hips that haven’t seen plentiful food and medicine and ultrasounds with pink or blue announcements.
And the whole world is raw with grief and pain and the wailing of God’s children and it hurts everywhere. But you feel it most in the questions.
And you tell me that writing is the thing that gets you through. It is the thing that tethers you to God when the questions are too many to answer and the pain is too acute to hold so it slips through feathered fingers onto the page and seeps across prose and poetry and rants so hard the pen crushes into paper and it’s battle and fury and you find the voice to say the hard and angry thing because Lord, it is so unfair.
And you tell me that writing is the voice you find when your God answers back. Sometimes in nothing more than the exhale when you close the cover and place it back in the drawer and find yourself able to see again. To let the noise of your pen do battle for you and rest in the aftermath when God moves in close.
We are a people being ransomed day by day. We pour out our lament and we trust in a God who meets us in the low places. And friend, you are a writer, because God sees your words, a holy hymn, a Psalm in the darkness and a cry in the wilderness. He is the God who sees.
On Fridays we write. And sometimes it goes all over the place and we let it. We get messy and real and sometimes we cry and sometimes we laugh but we get it done week after week. We show up and write free. Five minutes on one prompt: this week is : Writer. We silence the critic and the audience, we make peace with our mistakes and our word tense that goes in and out when we type fast. We don’t overthink or edit or make a fuss. We just believe words spilled are worth something even if they come out like madness. Join us? We’re at Lisa Jo’s, and we need your story.