At The Library

She put the book back on the dust-lined shelf and, as she sat down at the table, inhaled the musty but familiar smell of the old library. She had been coming here since she was a small child and this building had watched her grow in so many ways: picture books, tween paperbacks, teen romance, and adult non-fiction. 

She quickly typed the title of the book now shelved and added the author and the ISBN to the spreadsheet on her computer labeled, "To Read Next".

With only a few more minutes before the library closed, she knew she needed to put her things away and check out the stack of books perched on the table beside her. 

It was hard for her to leave that night, just like every evening she had spent in the library before this. But, she knew she had to go so she gathered her belongings and made her way to the check-out desk.

She handed the librarian the stack of books she wanted to check-out and passed her a handwritten note.

The note read, "Thank you for working here. I love coming here and, without your efforts, I don't think the library would be the same. I am deaf and cannot hear the conversations and expressed emotions around me. But, in the world of books, I can! I love it when I can "hear" communication in the text. Thank you for making that possible for me."

...and the librarian, with tears welled up in her eyes, reached over the counter and touched the girl's arm and said, "Thank you", hoping that the girl could read lips.

The girl looked into the well-worn eyes of the librarian and nodded her head up and down in agreement.

The girl saw and felt emotion. Maybe she didn't need to "hear" communication after all.

Stoplight

I tried my hand, well...my keyboard actually, at crafting a little fiction over at Pictures, Poetry & Prose.  The writing prompt was "Waiting at a stoplight..."

Enjoy!

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Kara sat in her car while she waited for the traffic light to turn green despite the steady blaze of red that seemed to taunt her into more waiting.

"It's my turn", she said out loud. Even though no one else was listening.

Disgruntled at the long wait and determined to get on with her commute, Kara began to tap her fingers on the steering wheel.

"It's my turn", she said out loud. Even though no one else was listening.

Her heart began to pound harder and harder as her irritation bloomed into full blown anger. She couldn't fathom a reasonable explanation as to why the light was taking so long to turn green.

"It's my turn", she yelled out loud and pounded her balled up fists on the steering wheel. Even though no one else was listening.

A car pulled up on her left side and Kara turned to look. As she did, her eyes caught a glimpse of a young girl who was firmly buckled up in her car seat in the rear of the car. The little girl began to entice Kara with a game of peek-a-boo.

Kara's heart immediately melted. Of course she wanted to play with this sweet little girl who was all smiles. The mom in the front seat of the car smiled and waved and nodded in approval of the game. 

The tiny little girl dipped and tried to hide behind her hands with the grandest peek-a-boo gestures. 

"It's my turn", Kara said out loud. Even though the little girl couldn't hear her. And, reciprocated with a big smile and wide eyes that gave way to an even more animated peek-a-boo.

....and then, the light turned green.

Sad that the game ended so soon, Kara waved goodbye to the little girl as both cars began to accelerate.

She patted her belly, now protruding with 7 months worth of new baby, as she grinned and said, "It's my turn! It's my turn to be a mommy soon".

An Award!!

If we get honest with ourselves for a moment, we find that we all desire some small portion of recognition or affirmation in our day.  I'm not talking about winning the Nobel Peace Prize or something of that grandeur.  I'm talking about that compliment that comes out of nowhere from your teenager who says, "Wow, Mom, you look cool today." It's the kind of recognition from your boss who says, "I see how hard you've been working on this project and I really appreciate your efforts."  Or, the warm touch of a friend in crisis who lays her hand on yours as she says, "Thank you so much for being here when I needed you."

It's the positive feedback we get from living life at our full potential and the result of reaching others with who God made us to be.   

So, imagine my delight when I realized I won an award!  Someone thought enough of my writing not only to read my stuff but to publicly acknowledge my writing!  And, it's not just any old award but an award from Pictures, Poetry & Prose. It's a blog I visit often to contribute thoughts and love the creativity push that Laura Jane's site gives me.  Please go check it out....it's really cool.  The actual award is on the right hand side of my blog. :)

Before your day runs out, purpose yourself to acknowledge someone around you.  See them, compliment them and most of all, let them know your life is being touched by them. You see, it really does matter that we "do" life together and part of that journey is to encourage each other.  

Here's the actual piece that won the award...

 

Photo by S. Kay Murphy

Kay's Pen

The writing prompt:  Cross the bridge.  What is on the other side?

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Dense fog had made the journey quite tough.  She saw the outline of the bridge from a distance but couldn't make out its detail.

With each step she took, another detail filled in.

With each step she took, she was closer to her past being past.

With each step she took, she was closer to her future being now.

And, the bridge was change.

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That Man

I couldn’t help but let my eyes gaze upon him every few seconds as I stood in line to order my coffee.  I wanted to look at him.  I didn’t want to turn away from him like others were doing.  I wanted to have conversation with him.  He was mesmerizing to me and his presence stirred something deep down in my soul with every move he made.  I wanted to drink in every detail of him with my eyes even though I was well aware that my stare might be interpreted as impolite.  I wanted to reach for my camera and snap a quick photograph or two, however, I couldn’t bring myself to invade his privacy like that.

He deserved respect; he didn’t deserve exploitation.  So, my hand never made into the pocket of my bag where my camera rested.

 His hair, blonde and wispy, was strewn atop his head revealing vast amounts of grime he’d surely picked up from street sleeping.  Even in its unkempt, unwashed state with large matted sections, I could tell that he had been handsome and stylish some years ago. 

 His hands were weathered and showed signs of both aging and harsh outdoor living conditions.  The nail beds were encased with dirt and the skin was cracked in several places along his fingers.  He had strong looking hands that I could tell had been purposeful some years ago.

He rested seemingly comfortable and upright in his wheel chair while he watched the hustle and bustle of others within the coffee shop.  His eyes were bright and alert and he seemed ready for conversation, ready to be acknowledged in any way.  He rolled up to the counter and engaged the barista with a wide, infectious smile as he asked for his “regular”.  She knew him and greeted him warmly by name.  Even though I couldn’t hear him speak to her, I heard her say, “Way to go!” back to him as she handed him a cup of hot, steaming tea. 

 I smiled to myself at the thought of him having friends.  People who would not just acknowledge him but dare to invest in him.  Friends who cared for him now just like friends who cared for him from some years ago.

 Then, he wheeled himself towards the door that led outside and I noticed the duffel bag positioned at the rear of his wheelchair.  His belongings fit into one small duffel bag.  I could tell that his bag had been one of many bags he had some years ago.

 I wondered what was in his bag.  I pondered the contents for a long time after he left the coffee shop.  What was in his bag?  Did he have one tattered, worn photograph in there that he gingerly took out each night to reminisce by? Or was there some other memento in the bag that represented his life from some years ago. 

Who was this man some years ago before circumstances led him to live such a wandering and harsh nomadic life?  And, why… am I so moved to want to follow him?