[Word count: 221. Approximate read time: 1 minute]
My writing output has dropped to near zero in the last quarter. Around November/December 2013, I was extremely depressed and dealing with heavy family and personal issues. But those resolved nicely just in time for me to meet an exceptional woman in January. I won’t say I “fell in love.” Say I got vacuumed into it. After whirling around inside her turbulent machinery for a couple months, I found myself ejected, scratched up, dizzy, and disoriented. I’m still figuring out which end is up.
The purpose of Junkyard Salvation was to be a proverbial trail of breadcrumbs if I ever got lost—which I currently am. Ideally, it would track my journey away from (and possibly back into) church. But as I look at the trail I’ve left, the words don’t seem to resonate to me. I forgot what I was talking about, and I need to re-focus the scope of this blog.
So if I’ve written anything that spoke to you, illuminated you, angered you, encouraged you, made you double check your facts, or otherwise stuck with you… please leave a comment below letting me know what it was.
It’ll help me find my way back. Please and thanks.
Other Junkyard Salvation articles:
[Word count: 596. Approximate read time: 2 minutes]
DISCLAIMER: I wrote this August 8, 2012, but decided to sit on it until now. In light of my friend Robin’s recent illness and passing, it carries extra significance.
Imagine someone you love—a mother, father, sibling, cousin, or close friend—unconscious and unresponsive. You don’t know what caused it and you don’t know how long it’s going to last. But the doctors say, “Keep talking to them, they can hear you. They may also respond to touch.” What would you do? How often would you visit? How long would you stay?
If it was someone I loved, I would become protective. I would be watching to make sure nurses and orderlies treated them right, kept them clean and comfortable. If it was my sister, I would sing our favorite songs to her. I would have DVDs of Good Times and The Jeffersons playing around the clock like she does most days.
If it was my mother, I would recite encouraging and empowering scriptures to her; she might respond to that. If it was my papa, I would massage his feet and make sure his toenails didn’t grow too long and uncomfortable. If it was me, I would want someone to touch me; hold my hand or stroke my forehead. For the love of God, make sure my lips aren’t chapped. I hate that.
And if it was your God, what would you do? Continue reading
[Word count: 359. Approximate read time: 1.5 minutes]
Here’s the scenario. My “salvation” is a car.
Not long ago, it was as smooth a ride as it ever was. Suddenly I find myself in the driver’s seat of a vehicle that has spun out, hit several objects, and flipped upside down. It all seemed to go in slow motion. Something sent me careening. Brakes ground. Tires squealed and slid. Airbags deployed as glass shattered and rained down. I couldn’t stop it.
Once I confirm my body physically unharmed, my attention turns to the inverted faces of bewildered onlookers whose expressions beg for an explanation I’m too shaken up to give. I imagine they assume I’m either a bad driver, or worse, a drunk one. But before the weight of blame can fold in on me, a heavier thought lands with a cold thud…
“My car is totaled and I have no idea how to fix it.”