Jairus' Daughter

Write On

When I turned three, my parents asked me what I wanted for my birthday.  I said a typewriter.  It may seem like an odd thing for a three-year-old to request, but whenever we would visit my dad's office at the chapel, he would let me play on the typewriter.  He would put some blank paper in, and I would tap out rows and rows of letters—no spaces—forming great unreadable stories.  I would watch, fascinated, as the typing ball came up and marked the paper with the exact letter I had chosen.  I loved the sound of it and the feel of it and the knowledge that I could create something real.

When my birthday came around, I opened up my presents to find a Fisher Price typewriter.  It was yellow.  Plastic.  Instead of a keyboard, it had three pieces of molded plastic to look like keys.  If you tried to press a key, a third of the keyboard moved with it.  There was no place for paper, no typing ball with letters all over it, no fantastic typing sound.

Thanks, guys.

Can you imagine what might have happened if they had given me a real typewriter at the age of three?  I could have developed a love for the written word early on.  Maybe I would have published my first novel by now.  Or become a journalist.  Or a... blogger.

Metablog

I have resolved not to blog about blogging.

Therefore, I will not write what I have just written.

Introversion Is Bliss

This article says introverts are more sensitive to stimuli.  I knew it!

Separated at Birth

Apparently, my husband has a Doppelgänger. (via funkypancake)

Will the real Jason please stand up?

Art Imitating Life

Tonight was a coming-out party.

My husband's, as a matter of fact.  We invited both sets of parents to see a piece of art he had done for the art show.  His statement explaining his inspiration cycled overhead on the PowerPoint.  That was how he chose to tell them that he was, in fact...

... alive.

Well, that wasn't the secret.  The secret was that he shouldn't be.  What everyone thought was an accident three and half years ago wasn't.  He intended to end his life and acted on that intent with complete resolve.  A miscalculation turned death into injury.

He's starting to talk about it.  He's starting to heal from the impact—not of the car, but of the truth.  And of hiding it these past years.  From everyone.  From me.

How do I feel about it?  I know whose arms were holding up the car that day, keeping it from falling.  He saved him.  He saved him for me.

Cherry Gospel

Heard recently in a group Bible study:

"The idea is to give people a taste of the pie, not shove the whole thing in their face."

Falling Down on the Job

I do realize it's rather pathetic to only update this blog once a month.  Honestly, I started to write something at least three times since the last entry, but I scrapped them all because they were crap.

I put the crap in scrap.

Meanwhile, check out my husband's blog.  He is quickly surpassing me in prolificity.