Cobbler

In amongst the mail was a journal. Since it had a high-heeled shoe printed on the front and swirly pattern decorating the interior pages along with the phrase "Walk By Faith" across the cover, Don assumed it was intended for me. (Could've been for one of the girls, but... Nah.) I have no idea where it originated, but if the giver was a reader, then consider yourself thanked. We had a ball speculating on the journal's origin, but eventually gave up since whomever it was clearly wanted anonymity.
Just yesterday a dear friend asked me when I am going to get around to writing that book that is in me somewhere. She also asked if I journal, to which I replied that "I blog." The blogging actually came out of the same friend's encouragement to write. Which was followed by the cheerleading of several friends who were amused by my tales of "Whoa!" and dismay regarding the fat chick who haunted my mirror after Evan was born and the rebellious jeans that no longer came up over my child-bearing hips. There is an ordered mind required to write with purpose, and I find my disordered life likely indicative of a disordered mind. (Several specific disorders come immediately to mind.) Perhaps there is a book in there somewhere waiting to emerge from the chrysalis into lines of characters that march across page after page.
Or perhaps the testimony is not to be found in my beloved words. Perhaps there is nothing so finely crafted as the life I have been given. And nearly lost again and again because this body does not work quite as it ought to sometimes leading me to questions without answers and pain without release. Because I am not done. But that wee book has captured my curiosity about words and how they can be cobbled together into whatever tale is there to be told.