Parts of Speech

. . . The disciples were called Christians first at Antioch. (Acts 11:26b, NIV)

"So what do you do?" She's counting heads, I can tell. One of the kids smile at her, then holds up seven fingers.

"I'm a mom, pretty much."

"She's a writer. She works on the 'puter." He is so proud. Snaggle-tooth proud.

Writing rules I read somewhere wash over me. Show don't tell. Resist the urge to explain. Never use flashbacks. They don't work well in my fiction, but come in handy in real life. Unfortunately, I chose to forgo them this time.

"I'm a Christian writer." Now she's figuring birthdays, but the twins are stumping her. Just like my answer.

She puts down her fingers. "A Christian writer? You translate the Bible? Like one of those missionfairies?"

My eyes bulge. "Not exactly. I write stories about Christians." Is that right? Not exactly. Why did I leave the house today? "I write stories for Christians?" It comes out a question and rightly so. That isn't it either. "I'm a Christian who writes books." My head hurts. That's as close as I can come today.

"Mom, did she say mission FAIRIES?"

"Shhh."

She doesn't move away. She moves closer. Please God, don't let a Happy Meal box fall out of the van. No, just a shoe. I'm feeling sick. She doesn't seem to notice. "Stories about Christians? Like in the Sunday School paper?"

"There's a french fry in my carseat. It's sticking me in my butt, Mommy! In. My. BUTT!"

My lip is trembling. "It's okay, honey. We're going. Just hand it here." Why, oh why did I think we needed milk? We didn't. We really didn't. I give her my best smile. Where where we? Sunday school papers. "I do some of that sometimes. Articles, essays, stuff like that." The ice cream is melting.

"No, lady. She makes up kissy stories. They do bad stuff and kiss Jesus and get married."

Is this a nightmare?

Her eyes look like headlights in a hurricane. "Kissy stories?" She pulls her smock tighter around her sides, giving me the I-knew-it face.

Why do I always want to laugh at times like this? "Well, um, I write some of those too. I just do whatever. All kinds of things. Whatever God gives me." Now we're getting closer. But she's moving father away.

"Mommy, I'm melting. It's sooooooo hot. Does she have a 'puter? Can't you e-mail her later?"

This is sad. So very sad. "Thanks M'am. For all your help."

She takes the cart with a snort. "Christian writer, my foot. Anybody that's got to call themself something probably ain't that something. Bring me the book, I'll see for myself."

"Will do."

When the first book drops, I will take her one and a thank you note, for making me remember that Christian isn't just a modifier. When did "Christian" move from a compassionate noun to a lazy adjective in my vocabulary? I don't know. I am a Christian writer. It's all I know how to be. My very pulse is tied to Him. But if that's true, shouldn't somebody else know it besides me?

Edit my life, Jesus. Make love a verb again. Draw the word 'Christian' from a mouth other than my own. May my feeble words be manna to the drifting, balm for the hurting and hope for those on both sides of the walls. Love on me, Jesus. Love on me hard.

Faith Fragments

My belief hangs like a dangling participle in the sentence that is Yours. "Jesus is Lord," I whisper to the stranger before he can tell me his troubles, show me his pain, making me thirty feet late for church.

I'm already late. They already think I'm crazy. I don't have time to pray for those red rings rimming her eyes. "God bless you," is easier. We've got to go. The fries are getting cold. My heart is, too.

Here I am, a flickering flame, held high with other sputtering lanterns. We run, smoldering beacons raised on a road to nowhere, while the world plunges past, diving into a burning chasm.

"God has a wonderful plan for your life," we whisper as the road runs out beneath them, dropping them into the blaze.

We shrug, keep moving, thankful to be on the right path, in the right direction. "At least it wasn't me."

But it would have been. If somebody hadn't moved the cross from a place to a person, risked all to make love a truth instead of a lie, it would have been me. I smelled the smoke, heard the crackle of burning flesh--

And then, somebody snatched me. I didn't bother to ask her name. I knew who she was, and not because of a bracelet or a bumper sticker. As she stop-drop-and-rolled me away from hell, there was no confusion about who she was.

A Christian.