I wake wrapped in zebra sheets. (Maybe that accounts for my battling-the-tiger dreams of the other night.)
Light streams through the basement window, and I turn, and full moon hovers bright.
I’ve tossed all night, brain churning with medical and financial waves.
I reach out and pat them, chenille scattered–Patsy Clairmont and Blackwater Ben and Andrew Murray and Taylor Caldwell and Francis Chan and multitudes Kindle encased in calendar pocket atop quote-stamped daily pages.
And The Word.
They calm me.
And energize me.
There are more. In the car. In the book bag and in the basket.
At home they wiggle off the shelves to nestle on pillows, topple on tables, commandeer chairs and play hide-and-seek with under-the-bed dust bunnies.
They follow me everywhere.
And I can’t imagine doing life without them.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve never been alone.
There was Bambi (I tried to copy it long hand) and Winnie the Pooh (Eeyore’s lost tail scared me) and Nancy Drew (I submitted my own mystery story to the local newspaper that they rejected–so I burned it) and Cherry Ames and the Bobbsey Twins and Dick and Jane and Little House and Little Women (I tried to be like Jo.)
And not to forget Gone with the Wind and Best Loved Poems and my great-grandmother’s Book-of-the-Month-Club arrivals.
I hung out with Navy WAVES and nuns and missionaries in Africa. I wanted to be all of them.
I discovered the classics and today’s Christian authors.
And along came L.L. and others reaching for a higher calling.
And real writers became real friends.
Each carves a resting place in my heart.
And make me long to leave a legacy of my own.
I envision a Bible in my hands, a tombstone tower of bronzed books, leafy branches that overhang a bench topped with paper and pen, and an engraved plaque announcing, “She lived a word-encircled life.”
Just lay me down on a bed of books.
Linking up with Laura Boggess and The High Calling bookworms.