The Writing Life

“When a writer is born into a family, the family is finished.” -Czesław Miłosz

I laughed when I read this quote because I believe any writer willing to scratch his soul on paper is attempting to finish something.

The yearning, the howling in the bones with pen in hand, is not a cry to finish off family. It is a quest to discover one hidden, luminous pearl. The offering of words is a quiet force, an urgency to consider. The writer flings the door wide enough to usher in cool ocean winds.

The intent is to whisper, to warn. And the finest writing propels change. Otherwise, why labor and bleed?

The words, the sentences, and the paragraphs– bubbling up, up, up, and thus filling readers’ goblets– are gifts.

Swirl and sip, urges the writer, first as a palate cleanser. Then I shall grant you eyeglasses. Now try these on, and tell me what you see. Look around, my friend.

A gasp erupts in the windpipe of the reader, whose eyes widen, whose heart thumps in a jolt of recognition.

Yes, consider this the writer’s aim: to offer sight, ushering readers to unbidden places, both tasting and seeing that powerful triumvirate.

The healing elixir of goodness, truth, and beauty.

***

So, perhaps in one sense, when a writer is born, a family is finished, as rusty, unspoken systems have now been exposed and upbraided.

God alone may soften hearts. But a writer worth his salt will wave a high-beam flashlight on family structures deemed permissible.

Unmentionable.

***

Back in my lineage, pinned upon the branches of my family tree, lived a woman who suffered a nervous breakdown in her early twenties. It was a hush-hush affair, whispers religiously silenced, stories squelched.

Her pain pooled then chilled and formed a pond of ice two feet thick and scuffed up with figure eights. The ugliness, the bitterness, the dark places, morphed into hideous creatures pinned beneath the surface. Rather than ice-fishing, the adults around the generational dinner table opted to hire a Zamboni and sweep the shavings clean, leaving the top of the pond as smooth and pretty as glass.

But there were cracklings and groanings and hairline fissures.

What might have been different if a family writer had emerged? What if the beasts beneath the surface had been poked; if honest questions had been asked of this quietly raging woman, who claimed Christianity but did not seem to know God at all? Would such boldness have unhinged a secret door, eased the building pressure, and healed the ache? Protected others?

We will never know. Concealed sin throbbed and pushed, heaved and moaned, and finally shot upward through the ice. Corruption was birthed in dozens of slithering ways.

Her pain ruled heart and home. This was accepted for generations and was neatly packaged as a personality glitch, a convenient pet name to adopt. Naming specific sins was unimaginable.

One ho-hum day, her cruelty rose like a cresting wave and drowned the innocent.

***

I will call my ancestor Jane.

Jane was in her twilight years, when a friend, likewise a widow, invited Jane to go antiquing. The widow had little money but was happy of heart, the kind of woman who knew precisely how to enjoy living in plenty and in want, content and glowing with God’s provision.

This unlikely pair–jar half empty and jar half full–set out together. The widow soon happened upon a lovely set of China – a perfect dozen – that reminded her of her late husband. Her eyes shone brightly.

Jane, aren’t these lovely? She squealed as her cheeks pinkened, hands resting along her softened face as she gushed with cascading memories.

Once upon a time she and her love had hosted exquisite dinner parties, dancing throughout the kitchen in happy preparation as she baked fresh bread and miniature quiches, rinsing and patting and piling arugula atop China plates. She dotted the greens with halved cherry tomatoes and tiny carrot shavings. Her husband ground the salt and pepper mills over the entrées before setting the long farmer’s table. The two of them crooned alongside the record player and laughed as the fireplace popped and crackled. When the doorbell rang–

Are you going to buy them? Jane asked, her small eyes narrowing, interrupting the widow’s memories. The plates?

Oh, how I wish I could! But no, they are far too expensive.

She was making do on a meager pension.

But not to worry, Jane! she continued, smiling. It is fun to poke around, and simply remember.

So she did just that, circling back to the dishes only once more, tenderly holding one up to the light, and reminiscing. Eventually, she found Jane in another aisle and whispered that she would visit the restroom before they meandered to the next shop.

Jane nodded.

So they drove to the next shop, and the next, and finally decided to call it a day. When the widow signaled her blinker and pulled into Jane’s driveway, she glimpsed a box on the back seat.

I didn’t know you bought anything! she smiled.

Jane nodded.

Oh! Do tell! What did you find?

Jane opened the back door, reached into the box, and held up the China plate. There were eleven others.

***

The writer stands on the edge of the salty shoreline, gazing out…up…around…and down, inhaling every minute, invigorating detail. Winds whip fierce, tugging him this way and that. Pulling his ballcap low, he remains strong, determined to stay the course. As the waves lap against his ankles, and retreat with the tide, his feet sink down, down, down. Soon he is covered to his shins in sand and despite sinking low, he remains resolute; immovable. He is going downward for the good of his readers. The words must be written, and he is sober-minded and willing to make straight the story.

By patiently enduring, observing, and intuiting, he creates a fresh lexicon to the raging waters before him. Make no mistake, this is vital: new words hold distinct power to make the blind see.

Pen and notebook in hand, he ascertains that in the far distance lies the deepest place on planet Earth—the Mariana Trench. It is hushed by untamed, pitch-black waters.

What lies beneath those currents on that vast, unexplored sea floor?

The grave pressure of those deep, still waters makes it uncomfortable, but the writer will forge ahead anyway–he is made of strong stuff–gifting his readers a journey to untapped places.

It is, in fact, the most generous thing he can do.

To be a writer is to swim to the deep Mariana trenches of life, and to sink to the bottom, mining for those treasures masquerading as monsters.

Writers, scribble your stories in indelible ink, and then?

Show us Christ.

***

I have daydreamed about rewriting this sliver of ancestral history, but cannot.

I am a writer, entrusted with stories to steward, not change.

So here is my goblet, dear reader. Take a sip, cleanse your palate, and see.

***

“When a writer is born into a family, the family is finished.” Czesław Miłosz said.

Where, oh where is the buried pearl on the dark sea bed of this Mariana Trench?

***

The widow grinned happily at Jane.

The China plates!

And her upturned face glowed with expectancy.

Yes, said Jane.

And with that, she shut the car door and lugged the heavy box inside, arthritis notwithstanding, as the widow drove slowly away.

But you already have too many dishes. Why did you do it? a relative asked Jane, later.

Jane stood still–hands in pockets; eyes cold.

Because I could, she said.

And she smirked.

***

As I scour for pearls in the deep, my lungs are crushed, threatening to explode under such pressure. But God is here–holding the pearls and the waves, the Mariana Trench, and me.

Would you be surprised to know that God used a deceased ancestor to show me the repulsiveness of my own unrepentant spirit?

My heart is dashed to bits upon the ocean’s rocks when I envision her cruelty. Such grief weighs as I plead silently: May I never smirk, Lord! Help me to walk in lifelong repentance. May I be generous of heart and obey you.

And when I sin, raging against God, I am quicker to feel the pangs of sin, and turn to God in brokenness than I would have been without the costly pearl.

I envision the smirk and the widow’s stunned, sad expression and feel the searing pain.

My sins nailed Christ to the tree, and without humble contrition, I am no different than Jane.

This Gospel is truth; meant for every second of everyday life. And yielding to it in full repentant submission is what separated King David and Apostle Paul–both wicked sinners turned saints–from Pharoah and Jezebel and countless others who are forever separated from God.

***

The writer’s family is not finished because God is not finished.

This is the writing life.

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