Writers Group: Children Always Welcome

This weekend we met up with some of the writers from our group to have an isolated block of writing time.  Some of us cannot write at home or need a change of scenery every so often.  My son came along with us and had a great time playing X Box with my friend's son. It was a very productive night; one writer submitted to a publication, another submitted music to a publication, another queried a publication and I wrote a few words toward another story.

I love our time together and am most grateful because it includes my family.  We all come to group together because that's who we are:  parents who are writers.  Those in the group who are not parents or whose children are grown also understand and are welcoming.  Our writers group is a part of my life like a limb on my body.

Blessed be the writers.

My Body The Earth

The canyons on my stomach 
remind me that there was 
once life inside of me.

Birth

Crucify Him! It's only a play. One by one, arms interlocked, the women follow the Christ Jesus outside.  My lunch is heavy in my stomach.  His makeup blood is smeared on the rocks by the road and the Roman soldier screams in my face, “Will you carry His cross?”

I have my own cross to carry. 

Crucify Him!  My mind is clouded and suddenly I'm 15 and my mom has had enough of this life.  There is no love left for anyone save for the gaps in our breath and the hungry silence that feeds on our insecurities.  He already took dad.  What else can He take?

We walk closer to the Christ who is on the ground.  He's crying and his blood catches in the sun like a fisherman's hook.  He looks at me - will I carry His cross?  Splintered and shattered on the ground beside him, it has become impossible for him to carry.

Crucify Him!

My legs tremble and I am 6.  “Lay right here”, they say.  This is what I will know of love.

It is manly, it is heavy and it is unapologetic.  It is familial and I want to be a man.  My body is a mistake.

And Christ Jesus turns away.  He cannot carry the cross.  His hands are bloody and worn, his body is limp and he is feint.  Why have you forsaken me?  I run to Him and hold him up.  I'm not sure if he remembers that this is a play because his entire weight is on my left shoulder.  Why have you forsaken me?

The tears come in droves and I'm 19 and there is no blood and I'm confused.  I no longer want to be me.  I want it to go away.  The memories of my past eat me alive reminding me that I am a mistake.  Then I am 20 and she's born through me. There is so much blood and they take her to another room.  She lives.   

Crucify Him! I can't stop crying.  I'm carrying Christ Jesus and they are screaming in my face.  They are going to crucify Him.  His blood is all over my hands, my clothes, my hair, my face.  It doesn't come off and the Romans take Him from my grip.

They crucified Him.  He hangs on the cross with no less breath in Him than when we are born.  Reborn.  Born again.  One life given so that I could have new life in me.