Sunday Came Around Again.

Sunday came around again.
...Of coarse I knew it would.
I had mixed emotions about going. Part of me wanted to go; that side that finds itself with neck-craned, looking out the window at the car accident you drive by slower than called for. The other part of me wanted to stay home and stage my own silent protest. But instead, I went, with both attitudes firmly planted in my mind.
Not the best heart-attitude for attending church.
Not the best heart-attitude for anything good to come of it, for that matter.

We choose the third pew from the front. I obey, as the worship leader asks us to stand. But then I freeze. I can not sing. Literally. The words refuse to come forth. And then my eyes refuse to make contact with the front. My head drops. Then the tears begin to flow. My head stays down for the entire sermon. I can not look any of these people in the eyes. I feel betrayed. I am confused. I am lost and it hurts.

Again. Just like last Sunday.

...Sunday morning came, and I couldn’t stop the tears.

... More to come! Excerpts taken from book I am writing:

After They Leave, Who Will Love Me?

A Memoir of struggle to find love after adoption, divorce and death

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I Am With You

...This poem was inspired by the Bible Study I'm in, covering the Book of Deuteronomy... I am in a desert. I have lost my way. Oh Lord, speak to me... I need to hear you today! Remind me you are here. ...You've brought me this way. You have more for me! I need to hear you say... "You too have a Promised Land! Just look at my hand... see? Lean into my arms, gaze at my plans... Let Me set you free! Though your lost in a desert... Though you've lost your way... I am with you here, my child... I am with you today!" ~Carole A. Smith 10/3/12

This Can’t Be You…

I have been attending my Christian Writing/Editing Group bi-weekly for roughly two years now. For the same amount of time I have been slowly but surely chipping away on my first book, a Memoir. Some of the chapters are extremely telling and memories that I don’t really want to remember let alone share with others. But they are my stories and they need to be told… so the reader can know me, relate to me and hopefully heal with me. I read one of those uncomfortable chapters last week aloud in my group. Chapter 3 - which should give you a pretty good idea about how long I have been holding this one back. I have been waiting until I feel safe. I have been waiting to see if my writing is “good enough”. I have been waiting for someone to tell me to stop writing because it’s not good, so I don’t have to read the hard ones. But this hasn’t happened. So I keep writing, I keep attending and I keep reading. Today as I sit down to go over my edits and colleagues re

Life goes on...

Sunday may have been my personal proverbial five minutes of fame . It was wonderful. It was exhilarating. It was nerve-wracking. It was addicting. And now it is over. I feel incomplete. Like something is missing. Empty. I am Empty. This troubles me, so I muse. I analyze. I dig around, within myself, to find a root. To extract it. Completely. Like a weed, so that it will not spread. So that it will not choke-out the good that I have planted. Nurtured, painstakingly, until I saw the first blooms. My garden is fragile. Temperamental. I must always keep a steady eye and ready hand upon the first shoots of a weed. So I dig. I think back upon this experience. It began a little over three months ago. February 9 th , to be exact. The moment I read the non-conspicuous call for local writers to audition for a reading of their personal story on motherhood. I wasn’t expecting the invitation, which made it even more delightful; spontaneous.

Carole Smith

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