Last Saturday, my daughter and I attended a writing workshop at the Mississippi Arts + Entertainment Experience, hosted by the local chapter of the Mississippi Writers Guild. As you may well know by now, she’s exploring the craft of writing—and, well, so am I, which may come as a surprise.
For most of my adult life, I’ve been in school, where the main task is usually writing. Most of my vocational life has been in ministry, which also involves writing and verbal communication. I suppose I am a lifelong learner, and one of the skills I most want to improve is my ability to write and communicate a message that is clear, concise, consistent, correct, and complete. I also recognize a similar passion in our daughter, and I’m grateful to the MAX and Writers Guild for providing a monthly workshop.
I approached this workshop as if I had never written so much as a sentence—intentionally adopting a posture of learning. I’m so glad I did because it was fun, and the freedom to write without strict requirements or post-assessment was truly refreshing. The facilitator gave us a writing prompt: describe the feelings we associate with being home—without using the word "home." We were free to choose the literary medium, and while some wrote memoirs or songs, I wrote in prose.
I hope you’ll take a quick minute to read it, and I hope you know that your voice matters a great deal to this world. I hope you speak your mind.
Prose from Writers Workshop
There’s never any sunshine to greet me in the morning because I always wake before it does. A stillness settles over the house—one I’ve known for years, something that comforts me. My wife says she never hears me get out of bed, calling me a ninja, as I quietly check on the children, making sure they have enough blankets. I’ve spent most of my life in Mississippi, but I also lived in England for three years. Yet, no matter where I wake, the feeling that greets me each morning is the same—a familiar stillness, welcoming the sun to a new day.
Sometimes, thieves try to break in—not flesh-and-blood intruders with weapons and covered faces, but unseen ones that attack my very soul. They are never welcome, yet often inevitable. In one season, lasting several years, a thief called depression met me each morning, stealing what little joy remained. Greeting the sunrise became habitual, mundane—less and less a hopeful anticipation of a new day.
And yet, I have come to see this singular moment in the morning as a gift, one I’ve too often taken for granted. Though I enjoy greeting the sun, solitude leaves me vulnerable, wondering if anyone will join me.
They do. They always do. Sometimes willingly, sometimes not, but they join me after the sun rises. To be human is to be in relationship with others, and when they join me, I am reminded of my humanity again—living another day, grateful to share it with my family.
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