I eat pickles when I can’t think of words to write.
Sometimes, I sit down for an evening and know what I want to say. I can look back over the day just past and find something of value and worth, something that made me smile or made me think, or made me sad, or made me remember.
Those nights, I have a story to tell.
But other evenings, I stare at my blank computer screen and wonder why I ever thought writing for anybody except me was a good idea.
I wonder if I have anything to say at all.
Those nights, I get up and find pickles.
I like dills, chips, or spears but am especially fond of old-fashioned bread and butter pickles.
My grandma made the best bread and butter pickles I’ve ever eaten. She grew the cucumbers and the onions in her own garden.
I suppose everyone thinks their grandma makes the best of everything, but the truth is, I’d give something pretty for just one more jar of her homemade pickles.
But now, Mt. Olive makes my pickles.
And when I can’t find words, when I’m tired, or when I have been running so hard that I haven’t had time to reflect, I find myself stepping from my dining room table – which sometimes doubles as my desk – and over to the refrigerator for a forkful of pickles.
Tonight, I’m tired. It’s been a long day, and it’s hard to think as I sit and watch the shadows fall around me.
I want to write words that help make sense of this world we live in. I want to write about hope, new life, and the promise of Spring, but I’ve got to say that ‘it’s sometimes just hard to be here where we are’ feeling.
Sometimes, bad things happen.
Sometimes, people die, and it hurts.
This evening, for all those who grieve and mourn, for all whose grief is fresh and new, and for those who carry grief like an old companion, just this – you never walk alone.
There is One who walks with you, beside you, One who loves you.
“Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil; for you are with me” [Psalm 23.4a].
Remember.
Blessings,
Vickie