I don’t get it. Are you a Christian writer or not? I just want to know once and for all.
I read what you write about God sometimes, but then you’ll turn around and cuss and it’s rather incongruous.
Sorry, but I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking. And from all of us who feel this way, I just want to say to you, pick one side and stay there!
Please don’t be offended,
I’ll start by saying, “Thank you.”
Thanks for calling me a “writer.” You have no idea how much that means. It’s taken me a long time to call myself that.
If you were to ask me what I am, I’d probably tell you I’m a drywall specialist, a flooring man, a trim carpenter, or an eleven-year community college student who studied hard to consistently maintain straight C’s.
But a writer? No.
Writers use big words, go to art exhibits, and wear facial expressions common to frustrating bathroom experiences.
Well, not me. The only big word I know is sesquipedalianism—which I believe is an island off the coast of Tulsa. And, my mother warned me to never attend art exhibits because they don’t have altar calls afterward.
Anyway, I grew up in a blue-collar household. My father had a blue-collar tongue. You should’ve heard HIS stories.
With a limited palette of only two cuss words and one Miller High Life, that man could paint the Sistine Chapel of tales.
And I miss him.
Now for the Christian thing:
After my father passed, we were messed-up people. Perhaps “flagellated” people would be a better way of saying it—I had to look that word up.
The details don’t matter, but during that period, I needed to feel like someone gave a damn about me. And nobody was applying for the job.
Pardon my use of a strong word, but if I’m going to tell this particular story, you ought to know the strength of these emotions.
My family almost crumbled. My father lost his mind on his final night. It was bad. In fact, I have never written about the events of that night, I don’t know that I ever will.
So, I don’t mean to depress you, but this life left us with little to believe in. I went from being a twelve-year-old, worried about baseball tryouts, to the “man of the family.”
I remember crying in the shower, once. Crying turned into wailing. The emotion hit so hard I collapsed.
I shouted swear words to the ceiling. Loud ones. I didn’t know who I was talking to, or if anyone heard me.
All of a sudden, I felt warm. It was the magic-blanket feeling you might read about in books like: “Chicken Soup for the Soul Volume 438: Stories so Sticky You’ll Need a Shot of Insulin.”
And I have believed in something big ever since. Something big-big. Something so vast that it steals your breath when you touch it. Something stronger than me. Something bright enough to blind a man. Something that brings sad children back to life.
So call me whatever sort of writer you want. A heathen, a C-student, a drywall specialist. But the truth is, it doesn’t matter which name you choose.
Because no matter how old I get, or what anyone thinks of me, I will always be a twelve-year-old, crying in the shower, with one thing left to believe in.
And I do, ma’am. I believe in it with all my heart.
Thanks for the letter.