why

When I write, especially when I write about the ones I love, I’m in charge. I control every person, every situation, and every reality on the screen.

I recall the lighting in the kitchen, the marble countertop and the cool air in the room; the firelight flickering on the dark walls; the color of their eyes; the leather seats of the living room sofa that are filled with the warmth and scent of family and friends, the crunch of the snow beneath the tires; the soft fabric of a throw tossed casually over a chair; the way he absently plays with the buttons of his coat as he talks; the headlights that cut through the falling snow, and the wet, shiny streets.

I rebuild our reality, our world, encased in the glass globe of my laptop or the soft parchment of my journal. I recreate the paths they walked throughout their lives; I recreate their trials, tribulations, celebrations, and demises. With each word I write, I create a parallel world, one in which I’m in charge.

In my mind, I see their lives, their relationships, and their daily goings on, where it plays in reverse. Where scenes of events, people and actions snap by, frame by frame; click, click, click.

On occasion, my own life weaves itself into their stories. The art imitates the life. I live their lives as they’re reborn from my fingertips. They live their lives completely, whereas many only live within the confines of limits and obstacles. Most people don't want to break the speed limit. But the ones I love? They take the risks others are too cautious to take. They say the things others are too shy to say. Fear has never been a factor for them.

The characters on the screen are merely vessels and for them, rejection is only written, never felt; heartbreak is sympathized, but never devastating. The night is only darkness, not loneliness.

I tell their stories, and I can save them of the things from which I can’t save myself.

It’s hard, playing God. It’s demanding, and at times it’s all-consuming. Quite frankly, I don’t know how He does it.

But when I turn away from the soft glow of the computer screen, or hear the distinct crackle of the journal’s spine as it closes, I’m always reminded of how grateful I am for Him and His presence.

And for that, I’m indeed very grateful.

30 / 30

Thirty minutes for thirty days.

Thirty minutes to write. Ponder. Hope. Imagine. Pray.

Thirty days to dream. Laugh. Encourage. Live. Pray.

Thirty minutes of writing for thirty days, all with the hope of donating enough money to help someone in need.

It could be your father or your mom. A sibling. A dear friend. The cashier at the market. Your mailman or dog groomer or the school crossing guard.

It could be you. Or me.

That’s the thing about life: you just never know what tomorrow will bring.

That’s why I’m supporting the American Cancer Society by participating in their 30 Minutes A Day In May Challenge. Write for thirty minutes each day for a month, and hope that some of you will support this endeavor by making a pledge to the ACS.

Cancer’s a horrible disease; we all know it. I don’t need to quote statistics, especially when I’m certain that most of the folks following along on this journey have experienced the fear and chaos on a first-hand basis.

And so I’ll simply say this: cancer stinks. Profound, I know, but there’s really no sense in trying to sugar-coat a disease that’s as pervasive and unrelenting as this one.

Feel free to join me here for the duration of May as I prattle on about life and love and family and why I am the way I am. If you feel so moved, please consider making a donation to the American Cancer Society. While I’m unsure if a cure will be found during the remainder of my life, I can and will pray that one be made available during the lifetimes of our next generation.

In the meantime, make yourself at home and comment as you see fit. Just try not to burn the place down.