The rest is mine, I guess, the beauty and the mess, to hide

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

Writing is, in many ways, similar to performing. The differences are what stand out immediately, of course. But the commonalities, though subtle, are difficult to ignore.

When I write, you see only as much of me as I’m willing to reveal. Using my words, I can paint a picture for you of the person I want you to see. I give away bits of who I am, but only at my discretion.

The same can be said of daily life, I suppose, but the effect is more extreme when a paper and pen stand between us. You can’t see the pieces of me revealed in how I interact with others, my facial expressions, or the way I carry myself. You might glean some insight into who this girl is, but I wonder how much your understanding would be increased, were we face to face.

Just the same, this is the life I’ve chosen. The black Papermate I hold is my tool for communicating, not only about my desires and dreams, but about what excites me, the things that invoke my passion.

How much of me is revealed through that is an ongoing mystery.

As good as I was to you, is this the thanks I get?

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

From where I lay on my bed, I can count ten volumes containing my thoughts over the years. I know that, just out of my line of vision, a spiral bound notebook holds page after page of poetry and prose. Just opposite the foot of my bed sits a box that contains, among other things, every published word I’ve ever written. Both yearbook and newspaper articles abound.

I am literally surrounded by thousands ‘ perhaps millions ‘ of words in this room. Those that have flowed from my own pen are kept in good company with the likes of CS Lewis, Sean Watkins, Patty Griffin, Francine Rivers, and Derek Webb, among others. The books and songs that have influenced my life cover my walls, inhabit my CD player, and find their liner notes strewn about the room.

As I wrote a letter last week (another outpouring of my daily word count), I looked about this room and began to wonder: what will come of my words when I am gone?

They are at home now among some of the great authors (and some veritable, albeit respected, unknowns) of the past century. Someday, though, I’ll pass from this world, leaving these volumes (and likely countless others yet to be written) to some unfortunate relative who will then be responsible for determining their fate. What will become of these pieces of my heart?

Unlikely though it may seem, I actually do pick up my old journals and pour over the pages on occasion. While in a particularly pensive mood, I may select a volume from several years past and turn to the present day’s date in that chapter of my life. Sometimes I discover that what I wrote then is still a struggle today; others, I look back and smile at the victories of life.

But what value do these words hold for anyone else? When I’m dead, will anyone treasure these books as I have? Will the time spent creating my high school yearbook be significant to someone else? Will all of these words serve as a memorial to the life of their author ‘ or will they be better suited to decomposition in a landfill far away?

I’m running and not quite sure where to go

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

So I’m sure that this won’t come across as artfully as it could, as I’m still battling a dizzy spell that swept in about half an hour ago. It settled in during my quiet time, which ordinarily would frustrate me. My time with God is never as satisfying to me when I’m sick, as I struggle to focus and my mind has trouble wrapping itself around anything remotely deep. Dizziness doesn’t help such a situation. Tonight, however, those road blocks didn’t get me down so much.

Lately, I’ve really been struggling with what direction my life is taking. That’s really been a theme of the past year – sometimes I look back and get upset with myself for the lack of progress I’ve made. But God is good, and He’s really taught me quite a bit through these trials. I was really questioning whether I wanted to go back to school at all last week, but I have come to the conclusion that I was (basically) running from commitment. That’s not an attractive quality, now is it? 🙂

I am a little frightened to say “this is what I’m going to do with my life” about a certain career or what have you. That’s a pretty big deal. But to continue running is immature and, quite honestly, spitting in the face of my God. He has created me to glorify Him, and refusing to do that by utilizing the gifts He has bestowed upon me doesn’t strike me as the wisest avenue to take.

So I’m praying. What are those gifts, and how can I best use them? (The struggle that has marked the past several years of my existence continues – who am I?) In doing so, I pull out a graduation card given to me by a dear friend just barely less than a year ago. I look up the verses that she gave to me, and again, God encourages me with His word.

My heart is stirred by a noble theme
as I recite my verses for the king;
my tongue is the pen of a skillful writer.
Psalm 45:1

Each one should use whatever gift he has received to serve others, faithfully administering God’s grace in its various forms. I Peter 4:10