There's No One Like Me, Right?

What you must know about me, if you must, is that there’s a book in me, a confessional really. Thing is, I don’t know when (or perish the thought, if) it will ever get from the inside of me into a bound book. The creation of it is kinda killing me. It’s just another thing I’ve started and not finished ‘cause eight hundred four things come at me a day moving at least twelve miles per hour and my little (self-diagnosed) A.D.H.D. brain says, “I can’t do everything so I’ll . . .  check Facebook. Change the laundry over. Pet a bunny. Gobble a tiny triangle of shortbread decorated with dark chocolate and peppermint dust.”

            Then this demon with a face like a burnt marshmallow perches on my knee and his talons, to tell the truth, they hurt a lot inside my skinny jeans even though I’m wearing black and white striped Betsey Johnson over-the-knee socks ‘cause a West Virginia winter in a one hundred one year old house can be pretty chillay. That’s French for chilly, you know.

            And the wee, wrinkly, skin-flaking freak lectures me. Tells me I’m a Shop-Vacking failure at life. That if I was really a good girl with some value I’d be scrubbing the hardwood floors on my hands and knees in the morning, Bible studying and chauffeuring kids all afternoon, and commuting an hour away to do a booksigning (Yeah, a real writer would have a book that people would line up to sign.) at a cute café in a historic district ‘til midnight. And the weird thing is, I believe him. Even though I know failure is just another F word.

            But that’s just me. No one else feels this way, right?

           

So then I get an idea. I fetch a Band-Aid and scribble a scripture on it. Slap it (gently though, ‘cause truth be told, I’m hurting) on my forehead. Oh gosh. That feels so much better. I lean toward the mirror and translate the aqua-penned, backward writing, on the flesh-toned strip.

Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.

           

Take that, you fart face, skin-flaking, marshmallow moron.

In the Beginning . . . Again

I couldn’t sleep. For the voices in my head. One voice really. One voice plus two words equal insomnia.

            “Start over.”

            I clenched my teeth. “No.”

            “Start over.”

            I set my face like flint. “I won’t do it.”

            “Start—“

            I made a head sandwich with two pillows. Silence. At last. I removed the top one.

            “Start—“
            I whimpered. “Are you kidding me? You seriously want me to flush 92,000 plus words? I’d rather—“

            “You’d rather what? Write less than your best? “

            I applied the pillow to my face again. Huffed. It’s right. He is. The voice. I’d heard it before. More than once. Several times actually. For what, one year? Maybe two? Always stuck my pointer fingers in my ears. Na-na-na-nah. Unstopped them. Is it gone yet?  Good.

            I lifted the pillow a half inch. To breathe. But I love the part where . . . And how I wrote that one scene . . .

            The voice found me. Inside my down-alternative hiding place.

            “You’re better now. Different. I’m doing a new thing. Trust me.”

            I slipped my hand under the top pillow. Wiped my nose with my wrist. Mouthed one word--how?

            “What did you tell that young man last week? The missionary?”

            I scrolled through memories. Found that one. Spoke inside my mind. How is a faithless question.

            “What are you afraid of, really?”

            I tossed the pillow to the floor. Rolled onto my side.

            “I’m scared it’ll take years. That I’ll be old before it’s finished.”

            “So?”

            I pictured Sarah, Abraham’s wife. Her papery, age-spotted arms cradled a chubby-faced baby boy. She’s too old to—

            “Let me ask you this. Would you rather your hands be empty? Do you want a babe that ceases to breathe in its second month?”

            I shook my head. Pressed my knuckles into my eyes to stop the burn.

            “No, sir. It’s just . . . It’s so big. Huge really. I’m—“

            “My grace is . . .” The voice paused.

            I opened my eyes. Waited for him to finish.  Oh, he wants me to say the rest.

            I listened to my quivery exhale. Tried to find something to focus on in the darkness.

            “Sufficient. Your grace is sufficient. ‘Cause your power’s made perfect . . . in weakness.”

            A breeze blew across the bed. Even though no window was open.

            “Get some rest, beloved. Tomorrow’s a big day. The day you’ll—“

            I shivered. Pulled the covers under my chin.

            “I know. The day I’ll start over.”