Monday, October 8, 4:54 pm Eastern Daylight Time. Autumn has surely
arrived in the land, and I huddle on the floor of the living room with a
little space heater blowing its feeble warmth into the air. A clock is
ticking off to my right. Marking away the seconds like the beating of a
heart. Tick...tick...tick...
I sit with my laptop perched upon my
legs, thinking. What shall I do? How can I share my stories with the
world? I complete my daily ritual of checking Amazon sales ranks,
website page views, and Goodreads ratings. Status: unchanged. I have
stories. How can I share them? The room is getting warmer, finally. The
novels of the Great Ones stare down at me from their shelves. Dekker,
Koontz, Dante, Bible, and too many others to count. The picture of my
late uncle watches me, too. "Don't give up," he says. "I'm so proud of
you and I know you can do it." He never saw my stories. They have only
come to me in recent years.
A crucifix gazes down at me from
beside my uncle. Christ in death, head bowed to one side as if he is
only sleeping. I want to be with him. I want to follow him in every word
and deed, but it is so hard, so hard. To his right is a box of
beautiful cards they all sent me in the mail during the Bad Time. It is
an irony, how the pain of that day could inspire me to write so
beautifully. Pain is a teacher; a cruel one; yet without it we are weak.
Without it we have no appreciation of happiness and joy.
I sit
here, back leaning against the couch, and think about how different life
would have been. I feel sad, even though years have come and gone. This
day has no need for tears, though they hover furtively at the edge of
my vision threatening to spill forth. I won't let them. Not today. There
is too much to be thankful for; my life and health among them.
Monday, October 8, 5:11 pm Eastern Daylight Time. I think I will turn off one of the space heaters. And I will pray.
