Howdy,

It’s true, I do love the rain.

I get a genuine thrill out of simply looking outside and seeing the common, old, dusty ground revived with heaven’s liquid refresher. Surprise dampness a sign for more, a hope, and then, with expectancy, ready, hearing the rain and walking over to a window, or, better, the large slider, and looking again to see puddling up in some places and all surrounding surfaces washed all over.

Circling splashes continuing to pound down in a pleasant way, dancing in pockets of puddles — nature’s hoedown happening on the heels of a barn raising.

Last night, the sound of the storm was nice. A perfect soundtrack for sleeping soundly.

This morning, the look of the “bad” weather was nice. A bother, though, for getting out of bed. Today’s early morning weather made me think, Today would be a perfect Christmas vacation morning for all staying in bed, listening to the rain falling from the clouds keeping the day dark — and sleepy.

Seattle is a neat town, you hear people say, and then you hear a retort of, If you can handle all the rain up there. 

I think I could.

I think we could.

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Howdy,

My seatbelt got stuck …

My seatbelt got stuck … 

My seatbelt got stuck … 

My … make it stop.

Is it a story?

A rap?

A song on LP stuck in a deep belt, scratched vinyl screeching smooth sounds to a stop?

So, today, my seatbelt got stuck.

And I need words, so I thought “My seatbelt got stuck …” qualified as a phrase with potential for story. I ran it through my mind and said it repeatedly to Sarah, as a joke. Which, she didn’t think funny. It sounded like … just kidding; I won’t make you read or hear blank blank blank blank … again. At least not in triplicate.

It does have great potential, though.

I mean, if we’re jumping into narrative and the car, or worse — better, if it’s a story? — a 15-passenger van full of people is sinking quickly in a wide, brown river moving swiftly, so swiftly the rushing current has the sagging vehicle already hundreds of yards downriver, then my seatbelt got stuck is bad news for our first-person narrator.

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“And let them make Me a sanctuary, that I may dwell in their midst” (Exodus 25:8).

Howdy,

Doing some study today and I’ve come across something interesting to me, thought-provoking.

Studying in the book of Exodus with my Community Bible Study men’s group (the current local CBS section is the “Red Sea to the Jordan River”) this week narrows in on the construction of the tabernacle — God’s early Old Testament home among His people.

The instructions that God gives contain minute detail as well as inspiration, and He equips gifted people as willing craftsmen for the construction. He also stirs the hearts and spirits of His people to generously offer precious goods for material.

With the Israelites wandering the desert between the Red Sea and the Jordan River, the tabernacle was a tent.

Mobile.

God went with them.

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Howdy,

We made the decision last night. Sarah and I got a gift.

To give.

A decision for action, we pulled the trigger and purchased the boys a Christmas gift that they are going to LOVE!

GUARANTEED.

I have no doubt.

We got the gift for them, obviously. Right?

But I am excited. So excited about it. Excited for them to see it. To use it. To smile those big, genuine, pleased, and happy, grins.

The smiles and boys’ activity. So good.

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Howdy,

So, today multiple members of the Fam — Team Hawes — weren’t feeling well.

It struck as an onset of what seemed to be rolling in, sure as a San Francisco fog or its AT&T postgame seagulls, circling white birds descending clockwise for their seasoned pieces of millions of dollars of Gilroy’s gift to ballpark garlic fries (a must, no expense spared).

We had hoped to avoid such an onslaught.

Last night Sarah and I had pretty much succumbed to the fact that Sunday morning church would be a divide-and-conquer affair. Had the discussion.

Last night … I should say last evening, because it was last night — mid night, and not just 12:00, two words, not one — that challenged and changed our thinking for conquering even anything.

The older boys slept in separate rooms — as in, Ti got the living room couch (not the first time, and surely not the last) — since Jasper was complaining in a miserable state (not sure sometimes how miserable he is versus how truly miserable he can make it for the rest of us with his hollering). In the middle of the night Jasper has wondered the house screeching out like some sort of mix of alley cat and a neighbor’s goat.

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Howdy,

#NaNoWriMo (550) — Day Done

Well, Happy December to you!

I know I’m a day late on saying it — but, trust me, I’d been very aware of the calendar flopping over with a lit puff of magical Holiday dust … Christmas!!

End of National Novel Writing Month!

Thanks for following this last month: here’s my recap and reflection of my #NaNoWriMo-lite foray.

Stated yesterday: amazing how 30 story-writing days blazed by so fast.

This, though, is not to say there weren’t days to slug through (I do and I don’t mean slog, because we’re about to talk throwing punches! Like slug bug, but being bugged slogging like a slug — sorry, allowed to type on this keyboard without oversight, I can’t help it): those sit-downs feeling like both sealed in a concrete cell and flailing to punch through oft-said bag of wet paper.

Weak wet paper bag butterfly dance — avoiding the fight more than setting up striking — because I’d already busted through many consecutive days: reaching the far side of a day written shouldn’t stand so resistant.

In the ring of the writing, though, for only a few of the days, the punches against story and the words to write it turned into a mental hunt and peck push.

Man …
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Howdy,

#NaNoWriMo (550) — Day 30
(Unedited, or only slightly)

(Editor’s note: National Novel Writing Month ended last night at 11:59 P.M., officially. However, I’ve been on my own Hawes version all along; today I’ll finish with my 30 days of writing (since I skipped a day of #nanowrimo hustle celebrating our wedding anniversary.) Amazing how these 30 story-writing days have blazed by so fast. Sorry for typos or “draft-moments” especially accentuated by the daily pace. By word count, I’ve reached a legit novella — thrilling to me in this timespan. My hope now is to edit, revise, and help the story bloom. Tomorrow I’ll reflect more on the 30-day nanowrimo experience.)

Continued …

Jake’s sidekick of a smile slipped on and off on him. He’d called out the extra two older athletes against himself, after likely already having more than he could handle with the first eighth grader upset with him and eager for a basketball battle.

Jake had fallen back into their idea: 21.

Instead of one-on-one, which Jake boldly stood his ground for initially as his only shot of a hope, Jones’ competitive fire — okay, immature boy temper — blocked his brain but not his mouth and he waved a strong challenge to all Three who’d clicked instantly into enemies on first encounter on the schoolyard, saying, “Step on the court. Then see if you’re laughing.”

They laughed and joined, making one-on-one become 21, really to be a twisted game of three-on-one — and that Jake understood fully. He knew, in the equation, he’d be the one: and not talking Neo and pulling off metaphysical miracles, unfortunately for Jake.

Why had he said it? Jake wondered as he geared up as best he could. No, his smile deserted him. What Jake had left was sweat, nervous sweat to start, and then it’d be real sweat, effort sweat, breaking out with Jake’s certain hustling determination to hold his own, to convince himself he’d accomplished something against the basketball bullies. Not sure what could actually be achieve, though. Either way, the awkward and intensified clash was too bad, because the big guys were three athletes Jake would’ve wanted to make friends with just as soon as with anybody on campus, but from the very beginning those Three were being butts.  Continue reading

Howdy,

#NaNoWriMo (550) — Day 29
(Unedited, or only slightly)

Continued …

Recess ripped that smile of Jake’s face in an instant. For an instant.

A test, yet Jake Jones in a trial was Jake Jones; he smiled and juked and dribbled his way through best he could.

Tribulation or no, Jake smiled. What changed could be seen in the crinkle around his eyes. Too young for wrinkles having traceability, Jake’s crinkling hinted at character roiling inside. A blessing for Jake, his disposition tended toward a boyish joy.

Displaced, Jake’s joy cracked and crumbled into sarcasm: selfish enjoyment buoyed with a sarcastic smile. Expression all right, yet somehow dis-positioned.

Smile or not — with hopes held for twisted pleasure after being corner — Jake faced trouble.

Somehow his “slight, with fight” had him about in one.

With three eighth graders. It seemed they’d come to bother him just because he was slight, and it seemed to bother them that he had fight.

Jake Jones had never come to fists, “fight” — backboned pluckiness — was just part of him.

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Howdy,

#NaNoWriMo (550) — Day 28
(Unedited, or only slightly)

Continued …

That day Jake was taking the campus like he took the court — but in a daydream that it worked anything like that, that getting noticed for something good, that making friends, that earning respect, happened in such a straightforward way: play well, receive his place with welcome. That day, it was completely possible, even as a lifelong underdog, that Jake Jones was overconfident.

Riding that wave.

Up on a few good breaks, Jake was eager to take the school court, show the others what he could do with a basketball in his hands, both hands, strong or off, show that he could play, the way he’d been playing. Someone more experienced may have cautioned young, sixth-grade Jake: warning him of breaks becoming white-capped curves pushing higher before a relentless and crushing crash in tumbling, rippling, swirling surf. Flattening all out in foam.

Only Jake didn’t know that school morning would flatten his game all out in foam.

Dissipating foam.

Jake thought about basketball. A lot. And he thought he could play. In that he certainly wasn’t all wrong. But, either way, once he started playing, it wouldn’t have mattered.

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