One little word. Five little minutes. Why, then, am I intimidated by the word and the time?
Probably because I’ve ignored all the other Five Minute Friday writing prompts for quite some time and am only just now writing on yesterday’s prompt.
The intro song of that television show CSI. That show I watched when I needed to settle into my ashes and not think about the burn. The distraction of evidences beyond my living room of other people’s pain brought a numbing kind of relief. A rising, a falling, a smattering of pieces, then the investigated solutions.
No, I can’t write about that, now can I?
I tuck the prompt into my thinking place and get on with my day.
So, the wise old owl on Winnie the Pooh?
“What was his name?” I asked my big girl in the kitchen.
She looked at me, fork arrested mid-air.
“Owl,” she said.
“Oh. Owl,” I said.
The wise must have simple names.
Wise. Wisdom. Solomon.
That three-syllabled name means peace. Anything but simple.
Wisdom (the beginning of which is the fear of the Lord) is peace.
Peace keeps the wise.
Ugh. I can’t write about any of this stuff.
Oh, wait, that might be something.
Even Solomon — what? Even he is not —
Arrayed like one of these.
The bits of scripture float around up there. I snatch a few pieces out of the air and type their letters into the Google search bar and send them out – a net to gather intel for this five-minute thrust.
This is what writers do. We take words, phrases, snapshots, and follow them. They bound like hares in open meadows from grass clump to rock to tree shadow – all experiences and memories and possibilities of story.
We follow the words – it’s what we do.
Story hunters and huntresses – that is who we are.
At the end of my five-minutes-that-should-have-been-done-yesterday, I find a bit of satisfaction.
There is a lesson here.
She who writes for the Lord should trust the story He has given.
The lesson is not in CSI.
The lesson won’t be found in the hollow of a tree, spouted from the beak called by a simple name.
I rustle the pages of Truth and slide my finger down the column.
So why do you worry about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin; and yet I say to you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. Now if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is, and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will He not much more clothe you, O you of little faith. Therefore, do not worry, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ For after all these things the Gentiles seek. For your heavenly Father knows that you need all these things. But seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added to you. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about its own things. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.
Matthew 6:28-34 (NKJV)
I still haven’t written anything earth shaking about my prompt, but hunting and thinking and writing is not about the prompt anyway.
For today, this piece is about all the little WHOs, standing around dressed in their little faith outfits, who long for fancy clothes.
His fancy clothes.