Notes to my Beginning Writer Self: On waiting for miracles
Dear Me Then,
You used to secretly love Easter Sunday. Although you weren’t wild about jumping out of bed before dawn to get dressed for church, you treasured the story of the women at the tomb. How they went before dawn in heartbreak to anoint Jesus’ body, two days after watching him die. How they found the tomb empty when they arrived. How they wept in anguish until two men in dazzling robes appeared and asked, why are you crying? Jesus is no longer here. He is risen from the dead!
Your faith in these events will fade over time, but you’ll never stop wanting to experience a moment like that. Like the women headed for the tomb on Easter morning, you will set a task for yourself, and as you spend years toiling away to achieve, you’ll be secretly, desperately hoping for a miracle.
I wish I could comfort you. I know the path you’re on is hard and lonely, and I know how many times you’ll cry out in your heart please, somebody help me! But I also feel I have to be honest with you and admit that nobody will. At least, not in the way you’re hoping. Your journey has no single destination, no one waiting at the end to tell you the struggle is conquered with joy.
And yet you’ll keep writing.
