Some beginnings are brown. There is nothing fresh or new about them.
Take autumn, for instance. In my mind, it begins with the first gilded edge on the giant magnolia tree. In my mind, it begins with the weeping willow’s coppery sheen.
Apparently, my mind is wrong. Has been wrong for all these years. Because autumn is beginning, and it is brown.
It is brown where the seed pods rattle in the flowerbeds. It is brown where the first leaves have fallen and turned crispy. They were overeager. They could not wait for their orange or red transformation. The reward for their impatience is to be mistaken for dull oak leaves rather than the vivid maples they are.
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Some have asked how the book writing is progressing. I tell them all the same thing. I tell them I have written a lot of words, and I despise every one of them.
The response to my honesty has been, universally, a wide-eyed look of concern. I appreciate the concern. It draws out the nurturer in me. I want to pat each friend on the hand, I want to pat myself on the hand, and say, “There, there. I think it will be okay. It is only that some beginnings are brown.”
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Beginnings rarely make a clean break with endings. The two are usually muddled together.
It can all be a bit discouraging without eyes to see. I am praying for eyes to see.
Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? (Isaiah 43:18-19)
Do not dwell on the past.
What relief there is in those words. How light is their burden.
Light enough that we are able to keep walking. Perhaps even with a spring in our step, which, as you know, is a sign of anticipation. We know we are closer.
Every day brings us closer to that place where the water runs fast and clear.
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I would be concerned if you said it was going fantastic and you are really pleased with what you’ve written. I think most writers feel the same way you do right now, at this – the beginning of your first book. Of course you feel that way. It’s like first time mothers who are overwhelmed and certain that they’re screwing it up somehow. I for one am SO thrilled you’re at this point and can’t wait to get your book in my hot little hands.
Ha! Thanks, Danielle. I hadn’t thought of it like that, but I’m pretty sure you’re right. Also, I was a neurotic first-time mother. It’s good for me to remember that. To remember how things do get easier, and that my default is always to assume I’m screwing up. Thank you, friend!
Love this so much. Your book is going to be a work of art.
Thank you, Amy. Your confidence is cheering. I’m so grateful for your consistent, encouraging presence here. Thank you.
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Sweet friend, I’m not worried. I remember that hot summer day borrowing my mom’s air conditioning, talking about the green couch, desire and LeAnne Payne’s Listening Prayer. You are a listening one and God is speaking about the power of desire and you, my friend, have the poetry to match His prophecy. It will come. Good things (like listening) take time. Give them the respect they deserve, the space they deserve. I know you already are.
My new beginning? So much emptiness like a huge echoing house or a blank green chalkboard. Praying I see the possibilities and don’t get drowned by the sense of smallness.
Oh, Summer, praying you begin to hear good, good things whispering in those new, empty spaces.
Honey, I’m sure they look brown to you. I know that much about writing and the pain it causes within. But I also know that if I were to read those words, they would not be brown to me. They would sparkle and shimmer in all the glorious colors of God’s rainbow. And they would promise so much. So much.
I’m a brand new reader of this blog. If this blog is an indicator of your skill, then your brown is a beautiful milk chocolate brown. Can’t wait for more of it.
Kay, thank you!
I have read this a few times now and want to comment but it just leaves me speechless and a little teary-eyed. And the photos…all those beautiful browns!…I can’t even tell you how much I love that your words give my little snapshots life and meaning.
p.s. Tonight out of the blue (but most things tens year old boys say are out of the blue, right?) Tristan said, “I can’t wait to read Aunt Christie’s book.”
Me too, I told him 🙂
Breathtakingly and heartachingly beautiful! This line – this got me down deep: “Beginnings rarely make a clean break with endings. The two are usually muddled together.” All summer long, He has held me close, and still, and has clearly brought an end, and then: Rest. Before the new beginning. I didn’t think of it as a gift very often, to be honest. But oh how it was! How it is!