Day 10

"I used to be afraid of the journey," she said. "I used to think arriving was the whole point. Used to think I’d only be somebody when I got there.”

“Yes,” he said. “What changed?”

“I can’t get there without the journey. I wouldn’t know it if I could. The value of the destination is what we share along the way, what we leave behind, what we find to take along. He’s not trying to just get us there; He wants to teach us to love it so we'll recognize it when we’re there.”

He took her hand and smiled.

Day 9

I look round my words as I speak them, trying to see, trying to find something to let me know. Silence and suggestion prick my ears, past-earned wisdom ties my hands; that old fear of being trapped. Lies hide in truth, truth plays games with its followers -- we only end up blamed ourselves.

I find what I was looking for. Not what I hoped, but what I feared. An empty cup held out, a smile without eyes. Moments with no following. A hand to hold but not to take.

Thank you, I say. Thank you.

I can leave now.

Day 8

I guess I’m here again.
I thought the ride was over,
But like a man in love I’m circling the block,
Hoping for another look.

I guess I’m used to it.
I know what isn’t true now.
But even the unreal draws blood;
Even what I learn not to see
Hurts, hurts, steals life from me.

I dread the hope I cling to,
And when I cry it is more for weariness --
When that is gone I’ll feel the pain.

I know the process, let’s begin.
Maybe this time will be the last time.

Maybe this time will be different.

Day 7

We were talking about what we’d give our lives for, about what it would take to love so much that there is no price limit. She said she had loved like that.

“I found out what it’s like to fight with everything I have for something worth dying for -- and lose.” She said that. She was talking to me.

“So – what do you mean, lose?” I asked.

“I lost,” she said.

“But you said it was worth dying for, that you gave everything. You’re still alive.”

“I lost,” she said again. “There was nothing I could do. Everything wasn’t enough.”

Day 6

“They’re back to not feeding us again.”

“I really need to unload on you.”

“This is the easy part. Now comes the hard part.”

“Tomorrow is a comfortable shoes, stand in line sort of dress day. I hate that it has to be you.”

“I just wanted to say hi and thanks for listening to me on the phone.”

“Hope in the Lord, for I shall yet praise Him.”

“That a Feast? Cookies and a drink?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I can go back home and get it if you need it before this evening.”

“How did I end up with two?”

Day 5

It started with snow on the ground and a rainbow in the morning clouds. Beautiful.

I see a desert land, happy now in its sand and heat -- a desert that once believed in rain, once held hope of downpours. Faith was once a virtue, feeding the flowers that grew from clay. But the rains never came. The desert cracked, grew brittle. The flowers died. Clouds passed, but the desert learned not to look up. They never brought what was promised.

But today there is thunder. Something in the silent heart begins to breathe. A cloud appears. Is it the rain?

Day 4

“One April day...I’ll turn to you and I'll say, 'I’ve always loved you in my way...'”

That’s what Christmases should be made of -- memories of Aprils and words, wrapped up in paper and placed under a tree, little mementos of what has gone before, giving back to what we’ve been given, staking hopes on promises made and kept in days past. Planting stones to remember us by, taking time to smile and see what we have always had, sipping joy from hands we trust. Looking up at the end of the day, not saying good-bye because no one is leaving.

Day 3

The fragments of our lives – these pieces we cling to – stand, innocent, the lies we build in honor of the truth. We fear the loss of us, scrambling to scoop the sand and mold the doors and desperately proclaim to all, “Come see!” This art of life, this blindness, this reaching in the dark – and still we fear the loss.

Lord, we cry for rescue. Take our sandy hands in yours, collect us from the scraps strewn upon the carpet of ourselves. We wait, unshapen now, for your defining. You are the potter, and we the work of your hands.

Day 2

“I hurt,” he said. “Hold me. I need to cry.”

“Hurt?” she said. “I can’t help you there. I have known pain, and I have learned that it is the ultimate loneliness. No one can take it away; no one can share it. You can write it down on paper, sing it to a crowd, or scream it at the heavens, but the hurt remains. And the worst pain of all is realizing, after the stab is over and you find breath again, the pain was only the result of your own mistake. You hurt? I cannot help you there.”

Day 1

“If you miss the train I’m on….”

I was reading Shakespeare today and thinking that he had a better grasp of art than many artists do now. His art points to something more; it captures you while directing your gaze on. That kind of beauty in art inspires, not just entertains.

Inspired. That’s what I want my life to be. Not just entertainment, not just a story, not just random acts that end up making me me – I want it to be prompted, stirred by something. I want my pockets to bulge because there is something inside to make them.

The Challenge

Inspired, of course, by http://www.100words.com, this is a test. Can I do this? Could I write 100 words a day? The next session on the website doesn't start till January 1, and since I always seem to miss the starting day, I figured the idea is worth using here.

The rules:

1. There are no rules.

2. Rule 1 isn't true.

3. You must write 100 words each and every day, during each day (not tomorrow writing for yesterday), for a whole month. 100 words exactly; no more, no less.

4. Once you've posted each 100 words, no editing is allowed. Life is better the first go, anyway.

5. Only if you complete the whole month will your entries be posted.

Should I follow the rules? (I hope I didn't miss any.) We'll see. I might create my own.

The challenge begins.....