#bluemonkffwip

[bluemonkwrites]

Sam 5

Sometimes I hear myself say I cannot keep this from her forever.

Then I can’t summon the courage to tell her and think she’ll someday accept she isn’t having any children, and convince myself there is no good reason to tell her. Then I realize what I really mean is I can’t find a good reason to reveal my treachery.

Every snotty brat is an angel to her, and every frustrated mother is blessed.

Why does she look at me like that? I can’t afford to change her with the truth. There is more to her than this baby fever.

[bluemonkwrites]

Peris 5

Last time I made an appointment with Father, Sam said I was trying to use the priest to pressure him. Maybe.

That little girl makes me wonder if it would be good to bring such a child to the world whose daddy would not want her enough to take part in her formation, and God I’m afraid that Sam would disappear if I got pregnant.

Did he tell me he wanted children when we were dating or just agree with me when I told him I did? I ache so; forgive me if I can’t but think something is wrong.

[bluemonkwrites]

Mama Stephanie (4)

Glory to God, maybe. Maybe it's time for me to be done.

Maybe it’s time to stop fretting over children like that one, without a daddy at church. Maybe I shouldn’t have bothered in the first place. Oh Lord, it feels so. My heart.

Don’t take it personally, Steph. God gets the glory anyway, right? Is it really for me to do? Paul is holding coats one day, then traveling to all sorts of places to persecute believers, making tents another, spreading the gospel far from home, getting beheaded another.

And I’ve only lost my head a couple of times.

[bluemonkwrites]

Ben 5

Here is the work of the devil: making an old man old before he knows, revealing his frailty when he is carrying a mere book in public, destroying his only service.

“Heirs of eternal life?” I sure don’t deserve it, but I guess that is what being an heir is about. However, eternity seems not a long time, but the present time stretched on the rack.

This wander-some mind! “Eternal life” turns into “why can’t I be there” and “I do welcome it.” I am not unhappy; I just want her whole and the companion she was.

Selfish me. Amen.

[bluemonkwrites]

Marjorie (4)

What is wrong with my husband? Not singing. Making faces. Like he's sick at his stomach.

You'd think that if people sang the same song every week, they’d eventually get it right, or at least sing it at the same time. What can they expect when the organist has the rhythmic sense of a bowl of ice cream? And Ben Bailey, a cradle Episcopalian, is older than the first prayer book, but just mumbles along like a brain damaged monk.

It's supposed to be a song of praise, but can these old heathen rednecks sing like it? Gawd, no.

From a novel in progress. Read more here.

[bluemonkwrites]

Dakota (4)

"You alone are the Holy One. You alone are the Lord."

Hasn't God heard there is another Lord, Mara the Mad? Mara the belittler. Mara the judge. Mara who laughs at nothing.

She is the one who taketh away. She not only refuses sex, but closeness. And I am the obscene filth who is supposed to be grateful for the cold bed she lets me sleep in.

Gah! The real mystery is how she paid enough attention to me to find out.

No more. I screwed up, but maybe it's time to get out of this sham of a marriage.

From a novel in progress. Read more here.

[bluemonkwrites]

Ron (4)

I am not a husband.

A husband can make his wife feels wanted. And here, when I need her most, I drink her away, lapping up the television until she's asleep so I can avoid failing her again in bed. I want to touch her now.

There. My hand on hers. A grin with a glimmer of the love she had when she could be proud of me, when she defended me to her parents who wanted her to marry a college graduate, not the grimace of fighting for a waste of space.

If she stays, maybe tomorrow has promise.

From a novel in progress. Read more here.

[bluemonkwrites]

Tabitha (4)

"We worship you. We give you thanks." When you carry me, carry Jack too. Oh, how I want to lift my hands, but Jack is embarrassed when I’m caught up in praise of the Father. Perhaps he is embarrassed at me altogether. Silliness he calls me.

So many words. Few from Jack. He had many when we met. Maybe only to sleep with me. Now the words come when he's grumpy only. But Christ can heal. Oh, Jesus heal! Carry me like water to his deep well.

I’m high without his words. "You alone are the Most High, Jesus Christ."

From a novel in progress. Read more here.