Writing to think

Toward the end of this past semester I received an email inviting College of Liberal Arts faculty to participate in a writing group. I struggle with writing. This confession is a problem in my line of work: publish or perish, baby. Mercer has recognized my skills in teaching and administration (although I detest the latter), forgiving in some ways my lack of publications. But I have always enjoyed the final product of the writing experience: thinking about a particular subject in depth. I also enjoy the research portion of writing. The problem is that I have to endure a painful process to get to the final product. A good example of this occurred last year when I finally sent off an article to a journal for review. The peer reviewers thought the topic of the essay was important but the framework needed serious revision. Rather than spend a small amount of time each day to work on the article, I hit it in fits and spurts, which means I have done almost nothing with it since that conditional acceptance. The email invitation appeared to be an opportunity to help me be accountable to a group of peers and to myself.

As an extension of the writing group, I came back to this blog to help me think through some things about writing. Like most arduous tasks in my life, gadgets help me deal with getting things done. I cannot keep a calendar unless it is on an electronic device. Is the blog a sufficient enough gadget to help me do a better job of writing every day? As past attempts suggests, the answer is no. But the problem has not been writing or the blog site, I have never been accountable to anyone other than myself (and that accountability partner knows how busy my life is), so perhaps the confluence of the gadget and the group will spur growth and discipline in this area of life. I have after all spent the past thirty minutes writing.

Christine

Twenty-four hours ago I received word that the third of the three most important women from my childhood had died. It was not unexpected news. My grandmother's health had been fading for years but like the rest of her life she soldiered on. The three women, my mother and her my mother along with my father's mother, helped to form the person I became. From my mother, I learned what it means to be loved and she died five years ago this month. From her mother, I learned that my brain was important and that I should exercise it and she died a little over thirteen years ago. From my dad's mom, I learned that humble people know more than we think. Since I grew up with my mother and my Grandma Thompson in the house and my Grandma Good two doors down, their imprint is significant.

Christine was the last one standing. She had told me almost thirty-two years ago that she was ready to die. She said that she had lived a good life and that she wanted to go home to Jesus. For a ten year old boy scared to death to die, the comment struck me hard. I teased her then and continued to tease her for the next three decades that since she was the only person I knew ready to die then she would live to one hundred. She would laugh and say, "no, I don't want to." In late January she celebrated her ninety-six birthday. I was almost right, Grandma. Someone commented recently that they had never known a person who so thoroughly enjoyed life as she did. She giggled with her nieces, even when all of them were well into their seventies. She would play penny poker with her boys and their boys (but only if we agreed to put the money back in the penny jar; she was a Baptist after all) and then would feign like she did not know whether her hand was any good (we learned to fold because it usually meant she had an impressive hand). We had our rough moments too, but like most memories those while defining did not define my grandmother. I am where I am today in part because she opened me to a world she cared little to understand but realized that it was important for me to see as much and do as much as possible. The sweet young woman who left Nashville with the man she loved to build a family and follow his restless heart saw more of the world than most of her kin and in the process grounded her brood in ways that we do not fully understand. Go in peace, Grandma; Henry your sweet Christine has come home (on Valentine's day no less).