Divine Inspiration

It's a strange feeling when a story won't leave you alone. Like a child, he taps on my shoulder, begging me to 'play' with him, craft him into being with pen and paper, giving him a life.

But other times, the story slams into my mind like a bolt of lightning and I must write it down before the electric current disintegrates me into black dust. It comes from a word or a phrase that I've read or maybe a person walks by me at the store and something in her expression or they way she walks begs to be told. The story I've included in this post came from God. I read a writing prompt that encouraged me to write from a completely different point-of-view that who I am. Well, I'm a woman with a house and a good life. The total opposite of that would be a homeless, drug-addicted man. And "I Think I Just Met Jesus" was born.

Point is, when an idea comes, stop and work with it. If you don't have time to spend hours with it, keep a notebook close by and make notes as often as necessary. Not writing down and idea means it will be lost and a story will never be told.

Here's my story - or not my story because I don't believe it came from me.

I Think I Just Met Jesus


I know that it sounds crazy. And if you told me the same thing, I’d roll my eyes and get away from you quicker than you could say ‘buzz-kill”. I’m not lying. And I don’t think I’m crazy. But if you talk to Nate, he’ll tell you I do tell lies and my ex would declare me legally insane, but I’m serious, man. I met Jesus.

He bought me coffee. Who knew the dude would be at the corner café jonesin’ for a cup of jo. I’m mean, my God! Of all the places to meet Jesus, I never thought that dive would be it.
See, I came in all wired and broke and hopin’ that old gal who works the counter would just slip me a cup and then I’d down it and then leave when she wasn’t lookin’. Had it all planned out. But then he was sittin’ there, all in jeans and an old coat and drinkin’ coffee black. His hair was long, just like in them pictures, so I thought he looked familiar. So I said, “Dude, you from the shelter?”

He turned and smiled and looked me in the eye. “No. You need shelter?”

“No man, I just told you I’m at the shelter. I can stay there until the end of next month.”

He kept watching me and I knew I shouldn’t of said nothing.

So then that old gal came over. “Mr. Jonah,” like I look like a mister, “you have money today to pay for coffee?”

“Nah, granny. I ain’t got no money, but I’m hurtin’ for a cup. Can you spot me one?”

She shook her head, real sorry like. “I’m afraid I can’t today. But it’s cold. How about a cup of hot water? Can’t see the boss getting too upset about that.”

Sure was cold outside and I figure that hot water better than nothing so I said, “Sure.”
I sat down next to that long-hair dude. Granny set a cup of hot water on the counter. I closed my eyes and leaned over until the steam warmed my face. I breathed in real deep and tried to pretend that I was smellin coffee. It did smell good, all rich and hot and strong. When I opened my eyes, I see the blackest coffee in my cup. I looked round for Granny to make sure she’s not looking before I drink it down real fast. But it was too hot and burned my mouth.

“Slow down, brother,” that long-hair dude said. “Coffee’s my treat.”

“Thanks man,” and I took my time. I looked him over again. “You sure we ain’t met?”

“I’m sure we have, long time ago.”

“I knew it! I have a good memory for faces.” I took another sip. “Where you from?”

“Around here,” he said. “But I travel often.”

“You don’t look like no business man,” I said.

“I didn’t say I was.”

“So what’s your business that takes you off travelin?” I asked.

“It’s a family business. I travel the world looking for recruits.”

“Yeah?” I took another sip. “You offerin jobs or you one of them cult leaders?”

“I’m more of a consultant,” he said. “People in need call on me and I come and help out.”

“I don’t need consulting. I need a job.”

He nodded. “If I were to help you find a job, you would have to stay sober.”

“Man.” My hands shook as I took another sip.

“You sober, Jonah?” he asked.

I looked at him, his dark eyes and I told the truth. “No.”

“You want a job?”

“Man, I need a job. The shelter’s nice and all, but a man’s gotta have a place of his own.”

“What keeps you from staying clean?”

I laughed. “You musta never been tempted. Once you taste that sweetness, ain’t no turning away.”

“No temptation has seized you except what is common to man.”

“Like I said,” I held up my cup in a toast-like way and took another sip. “But I’m not going for no rehab.”

“Why not?” he asked. “It’s a place to stay, food, bed, and help. You’d come clean and then I’d be able to help you find a job.”

I set my cup down. “Dude, you crazy! I don’t need your help.”

“If that’s how you want it,” he shrugged and turned away. “No pressure from me.”

I took another drink. But it weren’t coffee. It was just hot water. “Man, how’d you do that?” I asked.

He looked in my cup. “You cannot drink the cup of the Lord and the cup of demons too.”

“What you talkin about?”

“You want a place to call your own. I’m offering you a job. All you have to do is be clean. Why won’t you accept my help?”

“Cause no man should need help.”

“The eye cannot say to the hand, ‘I don't need you!’ And the head cannot say to the feet, ‘I don't need you!’”

“You are one crazy man. You talkin in code or something?”

He laughed. “Something like that. Otherwise you might see with your eyes, hear with your ears, understand with your heart and in turn, I would heal you.”

“Heal me,” I laughed and took another sip of coffee, only it was still only water. I set the cup down. “Man, if you can heal me, then I got a cut on my arm that needs healin.”

“How did you receive that cut?”

I said the truth again. Weird. “Knife.”

“Were you justified?”

I picked the cup up again. “No, man. It wasn’t my coat, but it weren’t his neither. I had as much right to it as he did.”

“Do you regret the fight?” he asked.

“I learned that dude’s got kids. If he just told me, I’d let him have it.”

“Do you regret the fight?” he asked again.

“Yeah, man, ain’t you listenin?” He smiled and said he was. “So what kinda’ job you got?” I asked.

“Nothing until you’re clean.”

“I can’t afford no rehab.”

He waved to Granny for a refill. “My friend here could use a cup of coffee. Put it on my bill.”
Granny smiled and brought me a new cup of coffee. I added cream and sugar to it; you know, make it more of a meal.

“I know a place looking for maintenance help, comes with a place to stay and two meals a day. The man who runs the place is quite talented in rehabilitating people. I’m sure if you work for him for three months in exchange for keeping the grounds neat and clean, he would help you out.”

“That’s the job? Janitor?” I asked.

“Groundskeeper. Could work out to be a career for you.”

“Any grass or gardens?”

“Plenty. In need of some care. Been a long while since someone showed those flowers any love.”

“What’s it pay?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“What’s a man to do without a paying job?” I asked.

“He’ll pay you with a bed and food. Until you’re clean, that’s the best job I can offer.” He pulled a pen out of his pocket and wrote on his napkin. “Here’s the man’s name and his address. If you decide you want a chance at this, go today.”

I laughed. “The offer only good for today?”

“What will be different tomorrow?” he asked. “The choice is yours, brother. You’re like a seed on rocky ground, being pecked at by birds. This is a chance to be on fertile ground, where you can come up, grow and produce a crop, multiplying thirty, sixty, or even a hundred times.”

“You talkin about me having kids?” Dude was blind if he thought I was the fatherly type.

“I’m talking about deeds.” He laid a five on the counter. “I’ll see you in three months.”

“How you gonna find me?”

He turned at the door. “If you’re where you should be, I’ll find you.”



“So I’m here for that groundskeeper job,” I told the man.

He looked again at the napkin with his name and address. “That’s quite remarkable. Long hair and dark eyes, you say?”

“Yeah. You know him?”

He smiled. “I believe I do. So tell me, Jonah, did he heal you?”

“You mean my knife cut? No. He can’t do nothing like that. That stuff’s for miracles and good people.”

“May I see your wound?” the man asked. “I have a first aid kit. If you agree to take the job, I can’t have you injured and working in the dirt.”

I took off my coat and pulled up my sleeve. “I’ll be…” I looked at the man. “It ain’t here.”

The man’s eyes got real red like he was about to cry. “I believe you are a blessed man, brother Jonah. Will you take the job?”

I looked at the goose bumps on my arms and I rolled my sleeve back down. “Yes, sir. I believe I will.”

Writer's Block

My question: Is writer's block for real?

I have many opinions on writer's block; the idea that there could be some obstruction in the brain of a writer that would keep ideas from flowing. The image of the boy and the leaking dike come to mind. There are days that my writing is like a tiny trickle of water, so weak that I can barely spell let alone write a compelling story. In my house, it's a girl (one of my three daughters) who comes along and sticks her finger in my 'flow of thought' and my writing is done.

After a busy day of homeschooling and householding, I can't wait to get to my quiet room and write. Somedays the words just don't come. My mind wants a break from the endless task of thinking of the next task. I'll admit that at times, the most powerful piece of writing I have to offer is an extensive To-Do list.

But writer's block is not just distraction or lack of motivation, it's a reason to set aside the pen and paper and read. Dive into a good book and find inspiration. Rent a few documentaries and learn something new. Read a genre you've never read before. Attend a poetry reading. Tour an art museum. Go to the zoo and look for people who match the behaviors of the animals they are watching.

I felt extreme guilt over this at first. The idea of not writing to become a better writer didn't make sense. It's not about always practicing a skill; sometimes we need to study the masters, search out new inspiration, deepen our understanding of the full world of art and nature. Then, and only then can we branch out into realms of writing we never thought possible.

Doesn't this go against everything you've learned about writing? Did you hear at the last writer's conference that every good writer writes everyday? Very true. Sometimes that writing time should be spent in reading good writing. If we can't identify good writing when we read it, how will we ever strengthen our own craft?

When writer's block strikes, the discouragement is overwhelming. That is unacceptable for me. Never will I allow writing to become cumbersome. Instead, I turn the tables for a few days and spend my writing time in reading and research. It will undoubtedly reveal a missing piece to me and I can immediately return to my notebook and write freely for hours.