It’s that time of month when I’ve scheduled this blog to be a showcase for what I’m working on. Well, what I SHOULD be working on is NOT what I actually am working on.
And I didn’t hear much about last month’s share…from the same manuscript.
Did anyone even read it? Does anyone see these posts?
Is anyone out there?
Here I am posting a blog and wondering HOW on earth to make Martha’s story stretch for another 10, 000 words. Yep. That’s how much UNDER my goal I am on this one?
How do these things happen?
I get too many irons in the fire.
This is what I’ve been doing since I “started” drafting this book:
- Overhauled LOVE’S EMERGING FAITH
- Written a ton of blogs
- Made too many memes
- Started making weekly LIVE videos
- Started a proposal writing workshop
- Purchased ISBNs
- Started an audiobook making project
- Released a book
- Promoted said book
- Stalked said book’s sales on an hourly basis
- Fine! “Said book” is MOMMY’S LITTLE MATCHMAKERS
- Organized the next book in the REFLECTIONS series
- Edited LOVE’S EMERGING FAITH
- Started an IngramSpark account so I can distribute the REFLECTIONS series
- Tried to upload the first book in the series
- Requested new covers for series (several times)
- Given up on formatting interior and begged an author friend to do it
- Made her change it so many times I feel guilty
- Wrote a scene or two in A LABORING HAND
- Submitted LOVE’S EMERGING FAITH
- Built up three regular clients for my Fiverr business
- Went on an excellent “Laurel and Hardy’s Next Adventure” (see upcoming blog post)
- Became a Lolly
YES! I’m a #firsttimelolly.
It IS as exciting as they say. And here’s a snapshot of my beautiful little granddaughter.
More about her and my grandmother name and being a first time lolly in an upcoming blog post. (Like I said, I’ve been writing a TON of these)
But now…another excerpt from the still-to-be-completed first draft.
From chapter 7 or 8. Haven’t completely decided on the layout yet. First draft, remember?
Mary followed me into the tiny space that contained fresh straw and bedding we’d been sleeping on—or tossing and turning on at least—since our brother passed into the next life.
In a hushed voice I told her, “The Master is come and calls for you.”
Another twinge tugged where my heart used to be whole.
Yahweh, forgive the little untruth.
He assured me that there was only truth or lies, no sizable ones of either.
Forgive this lie then. I justified it in my mind with, I’m only trying to help her find peace.
I sensed Yahweh wasn’t impressed with my reasoning.
Mary gasped. “Where?”
“I’ll show you.”
She followed me through the crush of comforters. Their voices rose.
“Where are you going?” Imma’s hand caught my arm but I swept it away and rushed toward the door.
Someone said, “She’s going to the grave to weep.”
Let them think what they would.
I took my sister’s hand and led her toward Yeshua’s circle of followers. As we neared, he broke away as before, and I dropped Mary’s hand.
She crumbled to the ground, and I let her.
Yeshua would pick her up.
Behind me, I heard the rustle of fabric and plod of footsteps. Imma had an arm around the shoulders of Avi’s girls and the women who’d been comforting us followed in a clot of black-shrouded humanity.
“Lord,” my sister cried, “if you had been here, my brother wouldn’t have died.”
My throat ached at the strain of holding in my tears. I said the same words, but the pain that broke my sister’s voice removed all accusation from them. Faith and love met with confusion. Why hadn’t he come when I told him Lazarus was sick?
Yeshua glanced at her and up at me and the crowd of women. Many of them were joined by their husbands now. Our group hadn’t gone through town unseen.
Yeshua bent and touched my sister’s shoulder. Her in-drawn gasp turned into a sob. He guided her to her feet, gently, like a father helping an injured child.
Please let his touch have Heavenly comfort.
By the time she stood, his face was marred by the anguish scarring my heart. His gaze met mine. “Where have you laid him?”
From behind me, one of the men who’d helped us carry Lazarus to his tomb came forward. “Come and see.”
Our procession continued down the dusty road and cut onto a narrower path. It was then, as Mary leaned against my side, sopping the tears from her face with her veil, that I realized Yeshua could have been pointing to the graves during our conversation.
Something buzzed in the abyss where the monster of loss lurked after devouring my heart and half my soul. Something I didn’t recognize because I hadn’t truly allowed myself to feel it since Mother and the others had died.
I stopped several feet from the tomb, a step behind Yeshua. His shoulders shook, and I realized he wept.
I knew he had loved my brother. Some in the crowd muttered that very truth.
Why then hadn’t he come and healed him?
Don’t doubt. Just believe.
Yahweh, help me believe in Your perfect will.
Well, there it is. What it might have been like to be Martha in the moments before everything in her world changed.
What do you think? Do you want to keep reading?
What sort of things do YOU wonder about Martha?