"Writing Down the Bones"

There are just a few writers in my family. And between us, we have a few favorite phrases we share back and forth. Phrases, mantras, only writers will understand. We "write down the bones" (in reference to Natalie Goldberg's book). And we "write drunk, and edit sober".

Whether you are a writer or not, you have heard of the term "writer's block". As writers we have our own ways of dealing with this obstacle. But as a rule... a flexible, personal rule subject to adaption... you are just supposed to keep writing.

Write nonsense. Words. You don't even have to write complete sentences. But there's a blank page in front of you, a blinking cursor. In order to overcome the familiar hesitation, that dreaded empty feeling, as a writer you almost have to trick yourself into thinking there are still words there.

Tucked away behind your ears and under your tongue.

Kind of like facing a snowy, icy hill in a two wheel drive car. Start at the bottom. Gain momentum. And when you hit the icy incline and your tires start to spin... do not slow down.

Until eventually, something will break loose. And I will drown in a deluge of words... poetic and metaphorical and well constructed and emotive. Eventually.

Until then, here I am. Spinning my tires. Writing drunk. Here are the bones.

-

Lately, I have been strangely fixated on doormats. The kind on the inside, where we first step when we walk through the door. I don't know why I have been so intrigued. But as I sit at my bakery, or at a coffee shop, during this wet snowy season I have watched person after person, of every gender, age, race, and stature walk through the door, shuffle their feet in a funny little dance and keep going. I've tried to extract some sort of parallel, some typical analogy out of this. Usually when I notice something over and over again, there is a lesson wrapped up in it.

But let me tell you. The only thing I keep hearing is my Father whisper, "go ahead. Come in. Leave all that at the door." That proverbial slush and emotional snow, which causes us to slip, sometimes causes us to fall. We carry it in with us. The soles of our boots are heavy. And here He is. Saying, "come. Come into My house. And leave all that right there, you don't need it here."

The funny thing about slush is that it was once snow. Pure and white. And then we got a hold of it. With our asphalt and our tires and our plows. We trod around and stomp around and salt the hell out of it. And it gets gross. He's not telling us to leave it at the door, to wipe it all off on the mat, because He can't handle our filthiness. Have you wrapped your heart and mind around what it means to be loved in spite of what's so dirty about you? He loves you. He also knows walking around with that sludge on your shoes will make you fall.

Just a thought.

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I want to learn. There is this growing, nagging realization in me. As if I had an epiphany, I thought, "I have no idea what I'm doing."

Yeah...

I know I've had the thought before. In the midst of a situation, or a problem, have been hit square in the forehead with the truth "I don't know what to do".

On Tuesday I walked into tutoring and felt calm and familiar with the whole situation. I'm not in charge, I really am just there to help. But as I walked up the stairs with a group of little boys and girls, one of the little boys threw a trademark temper tantrum.

I'm talking, started swinging his heavy backpack around his head, like he was David and there was this giant....

Everyone else on the team knows how to interact with him. I love him so much. He is the representation of a sweet lesson God taught me a few months ago. But I'm good with shy children, sassy children, sad children, sick children. I have yet to figure out what to do with an angry one.

The situation was quickly deescalated and efficiently handled... by someone else. But it is Friday and I am still walking around, trying to figure out when I'll learn how to do that.

Insecurity is my weak spot. That may sound tautological... (look it up, it's my new college word). But my lack of confidence is one of the biggest chinks in my armor. I know some stuff. I understand some stuff. I see a lot of things. I hear.

But I lack the confidence to act.

So when I stood in the hallway with a little boy with a flat stare and all I really wanted was to see change, to get through to him, and had no idea how...

Something inside me broke.

I have no idea what I'm doing. Or why I thought I could do this in the first place.

I just want to learn.

In the words of a good friend, "I don't know anything. Teach me."

And not just from textbooks. I want to learn how to do something. Something useful. Something helpful.

I want to be teachable and have a great capacity to learn.

To be brave enough to act on what I do know, and humble enough to ask for help.

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And then there is this steady, steady ache in my heart. This desire to be on the other side of the world. Maybe I want it so badly because I know it cannot feasibly happen right now. Leaving is not an option. Africa... is just too far away. In my heart I feel the rhythm still. Secretly I want to swing my arms the way the Gumuz do. Remember what it feels like for time to move slowly. To sit under a yawning night sky, watching the mountains burn.

-

So here I am. My identity is found within the One who is calling me to risk. Who is calling me to wipe my feet clean. Who breathes hope and promises spring. Words are not sufficient to describe this season. Things will not always be this way. And I will look back and see what I learned and where my heart led me. Eventually I will be able to tell you all about it.

For now, I'm just "writing down the bones".