Every other week she races in to rescue. This skilled, dedicated, strong woman enters my home with a recycled, black, burlap bag filled with who knows what and one warm smile.
Bravely she approaches the front door unaware of the blowup that’s intensifying on the other side. I’m overcome by the last 2 days of smoke building inside my chest about what I need to accomplish in order to become a published author. Because, in this building, all that should have been done…yesterday. I’m hiding all of that from her, because, who wants to be alone in a house with a woman who’s about to throw her new MacBook out the second floor window? What do I know about URL’s, domains, and HTML? (Acronyms: my nemesis). Writers now need to have an audience before they publish. The days when good writing just went to print are gone. Now you need a platform: proof that 10 million people are interested in what you have to say. I’m supposed to “brand” myself and promote my name. Have I mentioned along the way that I’m an introvert? Yikes. This place is goin up in flames.
She hands me this cup.
The Holy Spirit called 911. My cleaning lady showed up with one cup of everything I needed to remember, written on it. That’s all it took. Eight ounces to put out this burning heart. One cup to say, “Trust Me. You are mine.” I hugged her (twice), hugged the cup, grabbed the Puffs and went to my bedroom. I have to get out of her way. She has a schedule to keep, a mess to clean up, and other lives to save today.
She has no idea. Never told her how she frees me to concentrate, work, and refresh my cluttered head. She doesn’t know how her hands are used to clear the air and sweep up the ashes of this past week.