My soul is a story.
A story composed not of words on a page, but of dreams and images still too ethereal to be confined in ink. A dream, like the worlds and characters I have crafted over the years, that shifts and changes as I work it out in my head. A story that takes shape only in intersection with other tales as I speak it into being through prayer and sharing.
The story is a house on the edge of town.
There is a house on the edge of town, a house full of character and history. Mismatched furniture, a scratched wooden table, two high backed chairs before a stone fireplace. The home is quiet now, but the handprints on the walls and the crayon drawings on the fridge suggest this is not normally the case.
As the sun goes down on the house at the edge of town and the breeze floating through the open windows begins to chill, a boy, sticky with the sweat of a long hard day of playing, pushes his bike up the drive. The rows of houses and shops, now quiet and peaceful, will have new adventures for him tomorrow.
Behind the house on the edge of town there is a forest teeming with life. A young girl is gallivanting between the trunks. Her long blonde hair floats in knotted tangles as she moves fearlessly in the waning light. These are her woods. She knows that stump, that rock, that gully whose steep sides are responsible for the dirt on her hands and knees. This is where worlds are made and life and love take shape.
The house on the edge of town is family.
The noise is growing louder and hearts swell with the presence of family. The boy and girl are ushered off to wash their grimy hands while a woman tries to set the table with a toddler trailing behind. The doorbell rings and the kids, dirt still encrusted in their fingernails, take the last steps three at a time as they see the guests who are gathering around at the door. The lady from the cupcake shop, icing perennially lurking somewhere on her face, swoops up the toddler and passes the kids something colorful and sweet with a wink and a smile. Another friend, her own family in tow, slips flowers into a vase on the table exposing the blue ink smudged on her hand that betrays her as a writer. The laughter and chatter continues to build as the aroma of dinner and raspberry tea grows stronger. In the kitchen, the three women are eagerly discussing the publishing of the author’s latest book while in the living room small bodies attempt to tackle their fathers.
Cupcakes. Tea. Books. This is our family. And our family is our home. The home is the story. And the story is my soul.
oh my goodness……. this is AMAZING!
You should publish a book!