"Legends of Rhododendrons" Segment 1

Here is a segment of the work-in-progress-novel I am writing. I thought that I would share this a portion at a time with you all. It totals 23 pages as of right now. Maybe your comments will inspire me to work on it some more. Actually, a lull in the huge course load I have with school would be inspiration!

Mothers always tell their children not to touch the hot stove. It will burn. My frantic mom made this torturing experience inaccessible to me throughout my childhood. It was as if my small, petite mother spent all of her hours maneuvering just behind me, in the hopes to catch my hand before I made contact with the scalding metal stovetop. Later down the road of my years, I remember telling a friend my greatest dream in life was to finally be burned. At least I’d know for myself that the stove was hot.
Growing up, there was constantly that sheltering, as well as my hunger to break loose. My parents were real Christians. They weren’t these secularized religious slugs that don’t follow the words of their God. In fact, they followed to the utmost. They lived out the commands of Jesus, loved their brother Christians, and did not falter from their convictions. I think this is what drove me away the most. I knew that I could not live up to their God. Even with His forgiveness, I did not want to live in constant pursuit of holiness. I did not want to always be growing in my “walk” with their God. I knew that it had to be true—I was not stupid—I just couldn’t commit. My rebellion was finally complete when I ran away at the age of sixteen, moved in with my secret boyfriend, and thought that my life could only get more exciting.

“Hello?” My mother’s sweet voice pierced my mind from the other side of the phone line. “Hello?”
“Mom…” Sweat caked my palms as I gripped the phone with the force of Goliath.
“Oh, my,” I could hear the tears forming in her dull green eyes. “Jack, it’s Eve!” Her voice was somewhat muffled from her pale hand sliding over the receiver.
“Mom, how are you?” I couldn’t quite bring myself to say it.
“Evey, we’re doing fine. Where are you? We’ve looked everywhere.”
“I moved out of Chris’s house a long time ago, if that’s what you’re asking.” Still the words were stuck in my throat, like a piece of food caught in my windpipe. I was stalling.
“We knew that months ago. Are you okay? Are you hurt? In trouble?” I could hear my dad saying something in the background, but couldn’t make out the words.
“Tell Dad I’m okay,” thinking that may ease his pacing. “I’ve moved around a lot.”
“Eve, baby, what is going on?” My mom’s panic was starting to subside. I was going to stay on the line long enough for a conversation this time.
I could not push out the words that screamed in my mind. They needed to know, and I needed their help. Looming around me was the question of what would be the cost. Would their gentle nudging towards their truth push me out the door again? I had nowhere else to turn. The weeks of partying subsided as Chris and my relationship soured; the quick studio jobs singing backup for artists that would go farther, faster than me became few and far between. I was evicted, and the burning words that would not break loose still had to be said. One step at a time.
“Mom, I want to come home.”

Two Poems

Both of the following poems were written in Chicago, but at different times. I'll admit that I am a Chicago-lover (the city, not the musical or band). I've spent a lot of time there. Amazingly, while walking down Michigan Avenue I saw the same man playing the saxophone on the same street corner on two separate occasions, several months apart. I was in completely different moods one those occasions, so I wrote from different perspectives.

Passing

In the city’s wind a man stood alone
With his music, saxophone swaying
The passersby. Rushed steps clapped
The sidewalk, pushing their way through
The crowd. Now and then a coin is thrown
Into his musty case. Once I walked by without
Noticing his upturned collar to fight the cold.
My shoulder brushed another’s
And I turned back to listen and stare.
His fingers, covered from the remains
Of old gloves, pressed and released.
His sad face echoed the song, evening out
The fast tempo of Chicago’s Michigan Avenue,
And I added my dollar to the shallow case.




Stopping to Listen

On a sun soaked corner a man stood alone
With his music, saxophone sounds gliding
On the afternoon breeze.
The city’s congested screams quieted
As his musty case was caught in my view.
I recognized the threadbare gloves
He wore while his fingers pressed and released.
I waited for his song to end, its whistling tones
Bouncing to the fast tempo, and his eyes squinted
In a smile. I dropped my dollar into the shallow case,
Wondering why his song had changed.

Ridiculous Things

Okay, so I was sitting around with my family last night after we cleaned up our dinner mess, and I asked my husband what his plans were for tomorrow. He proceeded to tell me about normal Saturday activities we had been anticipating. "What?" I said. "Isn't tomorrow Friday?" My husband said no, it was Saturday. I continued to argue that it was Thursday, and tomorrow was Friday, and nearly convinced him. However, we looked at our handy cellphone calenders, and sure enough, he was right. See, this is what comes from not teaching for a week. I lose days. I have been messed up since. It is like Friday never existed for me this week.

This is the view outside my front window. I looked out this morning with fresh eyes. The sky had completely cleared over night, and I just stood in awe of the amazing work of my Lord. God's creation is always before us, but we so often do not really look. The thing is, this creation of God is his testimony to the world that he exists. "For the invisible things of him from the creation of the world are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made, even his eternal power and Godhead; so that they are without excuse" (Romans 1:20). So, if we have the perfect knowledge of the truth of Jesus Christ, shouldn't we praise him for the testimony of his creation? What an awesome God!



"Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever thou hadst formed the earth and the world, even from everlasting to everlasting, thou art God." Psalm 90:2

A Gift from Mekelle

Here is a video we made for my parents' birthdays this summer.

Plugs

Hey, check out my links on the left hand side of this page. I just got a blog up and running for the Elementary students, so spread the word. I also have links to some ministries and my husband's myspace, where you can hear some songs that we wrote.

Snow in Spring: A Mountain Ride

Edges are one thing that I cannot get used to. It is the great expanse, the drop, the wide nothingness which causes my stomach to squeeze into a tight fist. This mountain, Roan Mountain, did not seem too high, but as we skirted along roads that became icy on our way up, the edges began to sharpen in razor clarity.

Down below the winding curves of slick pavement and crystal trees, the world was green and new buds began to flower. Not here, not this height. Not where your car dances between clouds and frozen branches. I wanted to return to the safe, the green.

But it captured me. The starkness of the clear, clear blue against speckled white caught the air from my lungs in awe and wonder. Who wanted to be stuck at the bottom in dull and muted evergreen when crisp, clean blue could catch your breath away?

But there is always an edge. There is always a border to how high we can reach. We could touch the clouds, but could we reach the sun? This edge was at Carver’s gap, closing off the top of the mountain until summer. Look, though, look. The expanse, the wideness of the sky stretching out like an endless sea. That is the place with no edges. If only we could keep going.