I'm accepting a large dose of the Lord's courage and boldness and sharing a bit of my NaNoWriMo work-in-progress. It certainly qualifies as imperfect prose.
Instead of turning on the television Jessie opened her new Bible. She re-read the verses she had already read in Johnny’s Bible and they did seem to be a little bit easier to understand. “Maybe I’m not too dumb to get it” she thought. “Maybe I can learn what it all means.”
But to all who believed him and accepted him, he gave the right to become children of God. They are reborn—not with a physical birth resulting from human passion or plan, but a birth that comes from God.
If she became a child of God, that would mean that God would be her father. Jessie closed her eyes and tried to imagine what it would feel like to know that God was her father, but because she never knew a father she couldn’t put the pieces together. She never knew that a father should love you; she only was told that a father leaves you.
She had a night filled with dreams of babies and fathers coming and going. Some of the babies were taken home and others were left behind. There were babies that screamed and babies that were silent. In the dreams Jessie was trying to unlock the secret of which babies were loved but there was no predictable pattern to it. It seemed to have nothing to do with the babies and everything to do with the men who were supposed to be their fathers.
In the last dream of the night, all of the babies that had been left behind grew up very quickly and as adults, all of them were holding up signs with writing in different colours that said “There is something wrong with me.”
Jessie woke up thinking “That’s exactly how I feel, but if it wasn’t the babies’ faults then maybe it wasn’t my fault either.”
“I wouldn’t jump to any conclusions if I were you” said the voices, though they sounded a bit muffled.
“Maybe I was already jumping to conclusions” she answered back “and they were the wrong ones.”
Stop by Emily's In the Hush of the Moon to read more or perhaps even share some of your own words imperfect.