Why I refuse to celebrate "Single Awareness Day"

Every Valetines day there are those people who are just hating life because the word on the block is that it’s single awareness day. I resent that idea very much. Why do I need a day to throw a pity party for myself… I DON’T. I do that enough already. Lately, I have been stuck in the story of Hannah. Here’s a woman who has it all except a baby (which in bible times is super embarrassing because you get shunned by the community… super encouraging, right?!). Even though Hannah is being shunned by the community she has a husband who loves her whether or not she has a baby. Anyway the point is, that Hannah, through her trials and heartbreaks, worships the Lord with all she is; she surrenders.

If there’s one thing that I have learned about being a woman it’s that we want to control. Everything. We get so caught up in protecting ourselves and being in control that we hold onto things very tightly. And our hearts become a tight secure holding place for all the things that we can’t surrender.

It has also come to my attention that women sure do a lot of waiting. We wait for a husband. We wait for our babies to grow in our wombs. We wait for cookies to bake. We wait for the Lord to speak. We wait to be loved. We wait to be affirmed. Women wait. It is in our nature to wait. Recently, I have realized that waiting is an act of surrender. When we wait on the Lord, we are vulnerable. By waiting we break down walls. We give our hearts to the Lord even though it’s hard. It feels vulnerable. But mostly it feels like we’re not in control. Sometimes I feel like that is exactly where God wants us. In that space he says, “let me show you how much I love you my precious girl.”  

This Valentines day I refuse to acknowledge “single awareness day.” Instead I am going to celebrate the work that God has done in me. He has taken my insecurities and filled me with worth. Every day, he wants to be closer to me.  He is the creator and lover of my heart. This is probably the cheesiest thing I will ever write, but The creator is my Valentine because he was my first Valentine.

Experimenting with Ekphrasis

Hello dear readers, tomorrow is Valentines Day and i hope it is a pleasant one for you all. So in my Creative Writing class we have to write an "Ekphrasis" poem, which is basically english jargon for a poem about a painting. It's due tomorrow so I spent this afternoon sprawled out on my bed eating a box of Oreos and hoping that the writing God's would bless me with some inspiration. After looking at every Native American Painting ever painted then moving onto "dream paintings" i finally came upon this one. It intrigued me because it seemed like the perfect sanctuary. We all find ourselves struggling along, and then... there's a moment of fleeting beauty; a moment of perfection. And we hold onto it because it sings a song of hope to our broken spirit. Here is my Ekphrasis:

Fleeting Hope

The day

very grey

the night

twinkling light

Stripping off clothes like bandages

laying down burdens like packages

heaving heavy sighs

untying ties

Crawling like a child into bed

there’s one dream  swimming in my head

In this dream I see a vast expanse of lavender

hidden in the sleepy gold of morning

I am overwhelmed by this beauty

this beauty in my dreams

next day

very grey

Not Now

Not Now by: Michaela Wightman

Free as bird

No man I need

Fond of the soft summer air beneath my wings

No man I need

Not a girl who likes to be caged up

No man I need

Always a lover I seem to be

No man I need

Not now, not me.

But time will ripen my young heart

Then a man will I need

Lonely moons will pass

Then a man will I need

Days will be better with two

Then a man will I need

Not now, not me.

Old Bones

Her bones creak as she turns the steering wheel. She dwells on her daughter-in-laws wine soaked voice saying, “You really shouldn’t drive anymore, Mom. You’re eye sight is dreadful. You could seriously hurt someone!” The advice wasn’t bad, she thought to herself. The years had brought many handicaps to Mary Magdalene, but she was convinced that she could find her way to the beach even if she was totally blind; darkness could not stunt the memory of the old winding roads leading to the beach.

Her usual visits brought back many memories of times spent in the water and on the sand. The sun often left a lasting impression of her visits; her shoulders went from a pale white that lay covered in the winter, to an exposed bronze gold. She would often go home with red cheeks, causing her mother to scold her for not applying another layer of sun sunscreen. But Mary Magdalene bore the changes gladly, for in them held the memory of sunny days and bright smiles. For the whole summer, she held the imprints of her swimming suit. When she would glide into the shower and strip the tattered swimming suit off her body the trace of it never left and she didn’t care.

Today the sky is grey and cold; the color of mourning. She is on a mission--a mission of fleeting breath, final goodbyes, and last words.  She pulls into the empty parking lot slowly, and finds a parking spot. The white lines are blurred through her ancient eyes, so she is careful not to pull the car in too far. She sits in the driver’s seat, for a moment, gazing at the stone wall that covers the view of the sand. The waves are frantically racing towards the shore. She knows it will be cold; too cold for old bones. Yet, she reaches her hand to the car handle; gentle pulls it and sets her bare feet on the pavement.  “Baby Steps”, she chants, enticing her aching feet to keep moving. 

Thank you for reading. I post a new narrative every Friday. 

Blessings! 

Careening

I sat in the passenger seat with my legs hugged into my chest. Smoke and sweat were thick in the car, encasing me in a bubble I couldn’t escape. I remember being afraid, and looking at him; the blonde hair, blue eyed teenager that had too much testosterone coursing through his veins. He was short and not at all like a man, just a boy making boy mistakes and me at the mercy of his hormones; the end of his nerves. I felt defenseless as the car roared down the road.

Much like the feeling of a life that is careening out of control and there is no way to stop it. *crashing *crashing *crashing.

 I remember when the fires happened. The mountain was completely entrenched in a lethal red, inflaming anything and everything in its path. And me a helpless person, running, running, running-- Running from terror. Running from the reality that my life was being engulfed by smoke, and I was being driven out. The fire and the boy have something in common, they both sent me careening into directions I didn’t want to go. I became a dog licking my wounds under their powers.