February 11: A Skillful Weaver, Truth, Difficulties

In the book The Story of Charlotte's Web, Michael Sims writes,

I was in the barn that had inspired Charlotte's Web because, a few years earlier, I had been reading E. B. White's collected letters when I ran across his reply to a letter from schoolchildren:  "I didn't like spiders at first, but then I began watching one of them, and soon saw what a wonderful creature she was and what a skillful weaver.  I named her Charlotte."

White followed the maxim taught in most writing workshops:  write what you know.  There was a barn.  In the barn, there was a cellar where White kept pigs.  There was a rope used as a swing.  And there was a doorway where spiders lived and spun webs.  E. B. White wrote Charlotte's Web out of his personal experience.  That's why the book seems so truthful.


I always try to be truthful in what I write, whether it's an essay, poem, short story, or blog post.  Even if that truth is difficult.  I haven't avoided my struggles with my wife's mental illness or addictions.  I haven't avoided writing about my own addictions, either.  Truth isn't always pretty.  E. B. White knew that.  That's why Charlotte, that skillful weaver, dies.

The truth of my life, at the moment, is that my wife and I are struggling quite a bit with finances.  That car repair on Monday sort of killed us economically.  We have lots of bills to pay, and, literally, no money to pay them with.  This evening, my wife and I talked about the situation.  We're heading back to the Salvation Army food pantry tomorrow.  We're choosing what to pay and what to put off.  This evening, we received an automated phone call from a utility company.  My five-year-old son listened to the message on the answering machine and said, "Don't call them back.  They are just wanting to take our money."  That depressed me a little bit.

I'm trying not to feel sorry for myself tonight.  I'm not into self pity.  There are a lot of people in this world who are a lot worse off than me.  I'm just being truthful.  On this cold Tuesday, I have difficulties weighing on my mind.  Difficulties that I don't have much control over.  I need to let go and let...

Dear God,

It's me again.  I know, I know.  I need to have a little more faith.  I can hear Your voice in my ear:  "Trust Me.  Relax.  Things are going to be fine."  Of course I know that.  But I'm not feeling very confident about the future right now.  In fact, I'm a little depressed.

So, I'm simply asking for confidence this evening.  Give me some peace of mind, some hope.  Some cash wouldn't be bad, either.

Your loving servant,

Saint Marty

E. B. White's real barn

September 8: Strange Voice, Tight Times, New Cartoon

The moment Scrooge's hand was on the lock, a strange voice called him by his name, and bade him enter.  He obeyed.

These two sentences appear immediately before Scrooge's encounter with the Ghost of Christmas Present.  Scrooge has no idea what he's about to encounter.  By this time in the book, he's encountered all kinds of phantoms, some frightening, some not so frightening.  If I were him, I would be hiding under the bed with the chamber pot.

You know, the future is a scary thing sometimes, especially if you're not sure what the future holds.  For instance, at the moment, money is pretty tight for my family.  Really tight.  Coming off the summer, when I never get classes to teach, September/October is always a catch-up month when it comes to bills.  By the end of August, I'm usually pulling out what little hair I have left over every dime I have to spend.  I know it's bad when I look at a fifty-cent pack of gum and say to my daughter, "You really don't need that."  Yes, it gets that bad.

I don't like living that kind of existence, in a constant state of worry.  I feel like Scrooge, always on the threshold with my hand on the doorknob, not knowing what kind of ghoul I'm about to meet.  I'm hoping that my wife's new job will alleviate some of this stress.  She gets her first paycheck next week, thank God.  It won't be huge, but it will help.

This is one area of my life where my faith and trust fall a little short.  Even though I've received unexpected checks in the mail before, I just can't look at a bill and the balance in my checking account and think, "God will provide."  I just can't get to that place.

Saint Marty hopes that strange voice on the other side of the door, calling out to him, is the Ghost of Oprah Present, offering him a multi-million dollar contract to write for O magazine.

Confessions of Saint Marty

July 19: Trying to Keep Ahead

It took me forever to write this morning's post.  It could be because the editor for Blogger kept freezing up.  I couldn't type three words without having a four minute computer hiccup.  Yes, I'm still complaining about the blue circle of Blogger doom.  It is so frustrating.

I was supposed to go see some friends play in a band at a local Mexican restaurant this evening.  However, the babysitter cancelled on us.  I was really looking forward to it, too.  Now, it's just going to be an evening at home, watering the pumpkins and reading.  Any other night, that would sound really good to me.  Not tonight.  Not when I could have been sucking down three-dollar margaritas and listening to live music.

I just had another break, courtesy of Blogger.  Whenever the editor comes back from one of those hiccups, I type like crazy, trying to keep ahead of the next one.  It's like rushing to get the wash off the clothesline before the rainstorm hits.  Sometimes I'm successful, and sometimes I get stuck in that little blue whirlpool of static.

Yes, I don't have too much to add after this morning's post.  That subject (finances) is still pretty heavily on my mind.  If I were a better Christian, I'd be able to trust in God and stop worrying.  I can't do that.  I've always been a worrier.  I don't see that changing any time soon.  That's what I do.

Now, I'm trying to bring this post to an end before the next blue Blogger cyclone.  I'm looking for a graceful exit.  A great egress, as P. T. Barnum might have called it.

Saint Marty just wants to take a pill and make his anxiety go away.  Valium might work.

Worry bites