a strange brew from 2003
I have so many notebooks, and Lord have mercy if I die, PLEASE someone find them all and (do not read them) box them up, and give them to my children after they’ve turned gray. I think it would take the maturity of the gray to muster up enough grace for their reading.
Ian pulled one notebook off the shelf yesterday. I hadn’t looked at it since I finished its last page in a wildly creative and weird 2003. Then, I was a childless, church-sick, budding theologian, and so much has changed since babies; now, my notebooks are full of grocery lists and shifting schedules.
When he pulled the purple spiral down, little scraps flew under the chair, and in retrieving them, I discovered a few things I forgot I believe in: a Refiner’s Fire, letter writing, and nonsensical brain storms. I like words, and I believe in writing them down – even if they have no correlation at all whatsoever.
I would die of embarrassment if you were to pick it up, but I would like to share a few of its fairly non-embarrassing moments with you this week, so here’s a letter I wrote to my cousin. I quite enjoy its southerness.
When I asked Daddy to talk to Aunt Josie about whether or not you were coming to the wedding, she said that you were. She also said that we were like two ticks on a dog – I guess, as opposed to two peas in a pod. Well, if I were going to drain the life out of something, I’d want it to be with you.
Thank you for spending time with me and buying my toothbrush and dinner.
Having to do with our conversation, I found this verse: Revelation 21:23 “The city does not need the sun or the moon to shine on it, for the glory of God gives it light, and the Lamb is its lamp.” This must be what happens after the crack-heads take over and the Earth glows red hot. I hope to see you a lot before then.
I love you.