Dodgeball

"If you cry you can't play."
The challenge in his eyes was obvious. I dropped my eyes and stared at the ball in his hands.

"Alright." I said. With a quick glance, I did not miss the smile on his face. It was not meant to be inviting.

For weeks I had watched the 5th and 6th grade boys play dodgeball on the court in the mornings before school. The accuracy with which they could throw the ball and make contact with the players in the circle fascinated me. I loved dodgeball. None of the other fifth grade girls wanted to play with the guys. That should have made me leery.

Dodging the first few throws was easy. The one that caught me in the middle of the back and knocked me to the ground left me gasping for air. As I stood to my feet, I blinked back tears and stepped to join the outer circle. Every guy watched and waited for me to cry. Somehow I managed to focus on the game and not give in to my immediate discomfort.

For weeks I took the brutal hits of the ball. I waited for the guys to show me how to throw to get the speed I desired. I was willing to wait, watch, and learn to be the best at the game. The weeks that passed seemed like an eternity.

The day finally arrived when the best player approached and instructed me in how to grip and throw the ball. My first attempts sent the ball zinging over the heads of the players. I ignored the teasing my botched efforts brought me.

I finally released the ball with accuracy hitting my chosen target. Johnny hit the grown hard. In that brief moment, the game stopped and all eyes were on me. I had succeeded in throwing the ball with the speed of the other boys.

When I began to write this year, I felt like I was playing dodgeball again. Many times I've had the wind knocked out of me. I've thrown some zingers with my writing, but it's part of the process. Writing is one of the dreams I want to pursue. Fulfillment of dreams takes work.

Don't give up on your dreams if you get knocked down. It may sting a few times, but it's worth it.

The Right Ingredients

As the years have passed, I've realized the way I like to celebrate my birthday has also changed. My list of material things has grown smaller and my list of memory makers has grown larger. Year 47 of my life has started out with the right ingredients for making special memories. Here is the recipe:

*An early morning singing phone call from a five-year-old; my friend's daughter
*The men in my life, my husband and sons, scurrying around the kitchen to make me breakfast
*Heart shaped scrambled eggs (that takes talent)
*Home-made cards
*A clean house, which was the only thing I requested
*Birthday cards in the mail
*Birthday wishes from on line communications
*Dinner with dear friends

Mix this all together and allow it to unfold over twelve hours. The results; a perfect day because it had all the right ingredients.

Did You Say "Change?"

Two weddings, three deaths, and a baby shower can summarize this past month in my life. No, these events did not take place in my family, but in my family of friends. Though all different experiences, they all have one thing in common--change.I have heard that word more in the last few weeks than I have in a long time.

However, for the Perkins' household, "change" has become the new "normal". Almost everything people look to for stability in their lives has changed in ours. I'm not saying they are all bad, but definitely different.

Early in life I knew change was not something I enjoyed or gravitated toward. On my 13th birthday, my Mom found me sitting outside crying. Why? Because I didn't want to change into a teenager.

With a year of big transitions coming to an end in my life, here are a few lessons I have learned.

1. Change doesn't happen over night.
2. It requires letting go of something to move forward.
3. Change can bring tears of joy and/or sadness.
4. I don't always end up where I'm headed.
5. I have to draw closer to God to make the journey.

Number five gives me the most comfort, because if there happens to be a change in direction during the transitions that are happening in my life, I have to be close to God to know I'm headed in the right direction.

Life is forever changing, God is not. It's nice to know He remains constant.

Snug

When getting on an airplane, there are certain words that can cause a great amount of anxiety. "Please fasten you seat belt and make sure it's on tight because we're in for a bumpy ride." The stewardess was aware these words fell into that category.

My sister-in-law proceeded to tell me, in detail, about the flight "she will never take again." The short 48 minute flight increased her prayer life and gave her an appreciation for alternative travel arrangements when needed.

We laughed together when her ordeal was over, but I'm sure there was nothing humorous as the plane bounced her around.

Also, there was an added explanation for tightening her belt. "We don't want you to bump into anything." The stewardess said.

Makes sense. Bumping into things can cause bodily harm, especially when you are thousands of feet in the air. My guess is that everyone heeded the instructions they received; instructions that were there for their benefit and protection.

In Ephesians, we are instructed to put on the Belt of Truth. God probably wants us to put it on tight so it will keep us from bumping into some of the attacks that are meant to harm us.

The Christian walk can often times be a "bumpy ride." The Belt of Truth is something God gives to us for our benefit and protection.

I pray I remember to put it on every day...nice and snug.

Just a thought.

I think I'll write--"Wina, Can I see the white dog?"

In order to take time to write, I only need a few things; a place to write and a little quite.

"I don't know why your dog doesn't like peanut butter."

However, when a 5 year-old is sitting at your back--

"Why do you have small doggies?"
"Because I like small dogs."

As I was saying--
"Wina, my Mommy remembered my jammies. Remember, Wina, I have church tomorrow."

"Okay."

Let's try this again--

"Wina, what kind of chairs are over there?"

"The kind you sit on."

Ring, ring

"Your phone is ringing."
"I know the answering machine will get it."
"Remember Wina, I have church tomorrow."

"Wina, I love you."

Maybe now is not the time to write. I think I need to engage with my friend's 5-year-old daughter who is spending the night with us.

"Wina, check out the Lego thing I built."

I think I will.

Grace Abounds Here

Like a right of passage, we’ve all experienced it. Through sweaty palms, butterflies in the stomach, or tense muscles, being the “new kid on the block” has a way of expressing itself differently in each of our life.

Due to some circumstances out of my control and others that were not, I found myself rushing to teach my first class at a new location, with a new staff team, and new kids. Changing into my staff shirt in the bathroom, I was trying to convince myself that I was ready.

Sweaty hands—check.
Butterflies in the stomach—check.
Tense muscles—got’em.

My lesson plan was ready and the supplies I needed to teach were buried in the oversize bag I carried. Having taught the subject before didn’t remove the feeling of being a “newbie.”

As the principle walked by she stopped and smiled at me.
“You okay?”
“Trying to figure everything out.” I replied. My arms were loaded down with all of the information and notebooks I should have picked up long before that first day.

“You’ll do fine, grace abounds here.” She disappeared into the school office.

Grace abounds here. Wow.

With those three words, my entire day changed. My lesson didn’t go as planned, some of the kids asked about the previous teacher, but with an over abundance of grace everything was okay.

I pray not just in the new situations you encounter, but with the everyday patterns of your reality, that you will find grace abounding.

Let me end with my interesting revelation; once grace was extended to me, I was able to give it to myself. Maybe that’s where I should have started.

It's September That Can Only Mean One Thing

School is in full swing. Sigh...

Rain, Rain, Go Away

Rain rain go away,
Come again another day.
Little Johnny wants to play;

After four days of rain here in Florida, tropical storm Fay continues to linger around. As a kid, I remember saying the above nursery rhyme when the weather was bad and kept me inside. Waking to the sound of rain this morning brought the short chant back to mind.

It's not the rain that bothers me, it's the company it keeps. Torrential down pours accompanied with high wind gust and conditions right for tornadoes isn't exactly conditions conducive for singing in the rain.

When will it stop?

I don't know.

Two different friends with two totally different hardships going on in their lives asked me the same question. "When will it stop?"

I don't know. The torrential down pour in their lives are very real and at this point, no end is in sight.

The little rhyme mentioned earlier has an interesting history. Spain and England were rivals. In 1855, the Spanish attempted to attack England with a larger fleet of ships only to be soundly defeated. The English victory was attributed to the swiftness of their ships and the stormy weather that scattered the Spanish Armada fleets.

The rain actually helped to bring about the victory.

Is it possible for the rain in our lives to bring about victories? Ask, Silas and Peter. They were beaten, jailed, and chained for doing something right. The rains poured down in their lives and they worshiped.

"When will it stop?" They didn't know, but it didn't keep them from worshiping the God they knew to be real.

"Rain, rain go away,
but I will praise Him anyway."

Praising is a choice that cannot be taking away by circumstances.

Between a Rock and a Hard Place

The old cliche "between a rock and a hard place" came to mind as I listened to the retelling of a National Geographic film clip. Having been lured away from the herd, a wilder beast calf was in a race for its life as it was chased by cheetahs.

Being caught at the edge of the river, the end seemed near for the young animal. Death by cheetah. Not a way I would want to go. Suddenly a crock appeared from nowhere and grabbed the trapped calf. A tug-of-war pursued. Death by cheetah, crock, or being ripped into. Wow, the calf was caught between a rock and a hard place.

Amazingly, the rest of the herd had been watching and a few of the bulls ventured forth. They attacked. The cheetahs let go, the crock let go and here is the miracle, the calf lived!

All appeared hopeless and the calf lived in spite of being caught in an impossible situation.

Over the last few months I have faced situations where the outcome seemed grim. It's strange that the survival of a wilder beast can give me hope.

So does Psalm 33:19
"He rescues them from death and keeps them alive in times of famine."

My Past Finally Caught Up With Me

Tired, late at night, and distracted can equal a date with disaster; especially when behind the wheel of a car.

Having arrived back in town after almost three weeks of being away, I opted to go to a meeting Tuesday night. I wanted to go, yet after flying Orlando to Seattle, back to Orlando to Philadelphia and back to Orlando, fatigue had caught up with me.

Heading home Tuesday, I was quickly yanked out of my tiredness when a blue and white lights appeared in my rear view mirror. Heart pounding fast, I pulled over.

"Is there a problem, officer?"

"Turn into the next street so we are not in the middle of the road." The command was stern.

Driving well under the speed limit, I drove the three hundred or so yards with the officer close behind me. His lights on the entire time.

My mind was spinning. What did I do?

Speeding? No.

Following too closely? No.

The last thing I remembered doing was moving my purse and cell phone so they would not slide to the floor if I needed to stop. Gut wrenching feelings flood through me. Did I do something while relocating my phone? I had no idea.

Walking up to my window the questions started. Was I aware of the offense I had made? No. Where was I coming from? A friend's house.

"Driver's license, proof of insurance, and registration, ma'am."

Fumbling and shaken, I produced what was requested. As the officer went back to his car my mind tried to embrace what was happening. Had I really done something that required a ticket? I prayed.

Moments felt like an eternity before he returned.

"Mrs. Perkins, how long have you been driving?"

I stopped breathing.

"Since I was seventeen, officer."

He smiled. He actually smiled!

"You have an impeccable record. Just be careful and drive home safely."

An impeccable record? I repeated to myself as I pulled away.

A past of twenty years with no tickets or traffic violations had caught up with me and I had been given favor.

I Want My Mommy!

The tears flowed down his face yet he made no attempt to stop them. Turning away he spoke in an inaudible whisper.

We waited.

Turning toward us again, he said loud enough to be heard, "I want my Mommy." The tears rolled down his face and carried the pain that he felt.

The camera continued rolling as he walked away, shoulders slumped and quivering, he tried to control his sobs.

This easily could be a scene found in a rerun of Lassie, but in actually it is a scene from a reality show. All viewers witnessed a grown man crying and asking for his "Mommy".

The rawness of reality shows can sometimes reveal the unexpected. Why are we so enthralled with someone else pain? Is it because of the pain in our own lives?

The individual lost the dream he had of being #1 and did what came natural to him in a time of extreme disappointment--he asked for his Mom. It didn't matter that he was a grown man.

I was reminded of how often we turn to something that gives us the most comfort when we face the most pain.

When overwhelming disappointment catches you off guard, what do you cry out for. Friends? Family? Material things?

When I'm feeling squeezed like a tube of toothpaste, I can only hope I cry out to the One who brings me the most comfort.

"I want my Daddy." My Abba, Father.

Stuff

Thinking about what to blog, I had decided to share about an event in the lives of my twins. That is until I received an e-mail from a friend.

She has spent the last six days in the hospital with her son. A couple of surgeries later, the problem is still not resolved. After reading through her e-mail that was full of medical jargon that I do not understand, one sentence caught my attention.

A week in the hospital truly gives you a new perspective on life and a new appreciation for all things simple and complex.

She began listing the things she missed that I, for one, have been guilty of not appreciating at times.

Sleeping in her own bed.

Seeing her child healthy and up running around.

Sitting on the couch talking with her daughter.

Eating food that she prepared.

There were several more desires on her list, but what caught my attention was her closing statement. She closed with saying, "it's just stuff." Looking around at the "stuff" in my life, I understand what she was saying. It's not the stuff, it's the people in our lives that make the stuff matter.

Looking at the clutter on the table doesn't bring me the frustration that it has over the last few days. It is a reminder that life is not always neat and tidy, but stuff is happening in and around our home.

Who knows, maybe I will eventually write about my "all-you-can-eat" pancake experience with the twins and two of their friends. After all, it is part of the stuff that makes my family so dear and special to me.

Nature of the Beast

New to the world of blogging, I've struggled to get my hands around two concepts: diary and public domain.

In my mind, a diary has always represented a place where one can write their deepest and most private thoughts. A close and dear friend may be presented with the privilege of peaking into the inner most parts of my being, but that is after they have declared their loyalty for a long time. No where in my definition of a diary does the scrutiny of total strangers enter the picture.

I decided to consult my word document on the definition of "blog." Underlining the word I had typed, my computer informed me that I had made a mistake. Interesting. So, I inquired as to the word my trusted electronic friend suggest I use. Bog, bloc, blot, blob, or blow. Not even close.

Okay, what about "Blogger?" Bolger, Flogger, Logger, or Boggier. Boogier? I don't think so.

My college-age daughter tells me, when in doubt--dictionary.com. This is what I found.

Blog, noun, online dairy. There in lies the problem.

My diary will remain my diary. Pen and paper making contact to convey my private thoughts is still very important to me. And my blog will remain my blog; revealing yet another side of me that emerges when fingers glide across a keyboard.

For now, I will continue to try to understand the nature of blogging and see where it takes me.

486

I was simply known as 486. Initially, after entering the building, passing an entourage of police, and being scrutinized by a medal detecting machine, I was addressed by my first and last name. The address was even accompanied with a smile.

The next time my name was called, my addressed included my first name and the number.

486

My presence was acknowledged with a glance. Like herded sheep, forty of us followed obediently, entered an elevator and headed to the seventh floor. As if watching a movie screen, we all watched the numbers change from one to seven. No words were exchanged.

The waiting began along with the silence. Sounding like a mosquito chorus, the florescent lights buzzed over head.

Someone coughed. Someone else sneezed followed by at least a dozen mumbled “bless you.” Again we were embraced by silence.

“I can tell none of ya’ll want to be here.” The voice rushed from around the corner flooding our silence. Questioning glances were exchanged by a few, but the voice had a captivated audience. Was he talking to us? Most of us probably wondered.

“I expect you to be where I can see you.” With that declaration, we all stood and filed around the corner. No one was in a hurry to be the first one there, especially after seeing the one who addressed us. His voiced matched his appearance; big, black, and no nonsense. Definitely not new to the task he completed, our addressing officer had expected us to respond quicker than we did to his call. He folded his arms as he scanned our interesting ensemble.

“If your name is not Jackson, Smith, Jones, or Brown I will probably butcher it.”
Butcher, did he have to say butcher?
“So when I call your number, line up in front of me.” At that point, all formality was gone. I was just a number. Even a smile was no longer in the equation.

When called, 212 pushed his glasses up on his noise as he approached the officer. “415”

No answer.

“415!”

No answer. Those who stood closest to the cop offered meek explanations for the absence. One brave soul offered to search for one missing in action.
“415, Linda—” the officer looked down at his chart before he addressed her last name.

Silence.

He looked at the officer standing next to him, both exchanged a frustrated look. With a heavy sign he bellowed once again.
“415!” Emerging from around the corner, 415 moved forward with an obvious limp in her right leg.
For a moment, the cop stared at her as if he would address her tardiness, but instead he looked back at his chart.

Eventually I heard it.

“486.”
I took my place.

We were escorted into the courtroom in single file. A heavy set red head sat to my right. Number 128, 125? Because of the location of her number, I couldn’t see the last one. To my right was Mr. Unidentified. I called him Mr. Unidentified because he sat down, slouched, folded his arms, and covered his number in the process.

He drummed his fingers on the arm closest to me. There were other places he would have rather been, and his demeanor expressed his desire quite clearly. Even the judge addressed him several times.

The forty was soon to be six.
“Listen careful; I will call your name and your number.”
One, two, three numbers were called quickly in succession. After glancing downing at a chart, the clerk continued.

“Edwina Perkins, 486.”

I rose from my seat and entered the juror’s box. My day of jury duty was about to get longer. Much longer.

Kick the Bucket

“Simple truth”, “honest truth”, and “raw truth” are terms that are often used without the depth of the meaning of the phrase being embraced. Yet, expecting someone to tell the truth, ties their response closely to the morality issue that is raised. Lying is bad, therefore truth is good. What about an unvoiced truth? A hidden fact or information about a situation that remains unspoken. When one simply chooses to keep truth from another, what should that be called? Hidden truth? Scripture says do not hide your light under a bucket.

The reality of that is if you hide your candle under a bucket, you’re likely to start a fire. Is that not what happens when a believer hides information that is painful? How many fires get set this way?

If your brother offends you, go sulk. Well, there are days when I wish that is what my Bible said, but it doesn’t. If your brother offends you, go to him. Hmm, sounds like I would need to take action. Reaction, not action, is required if truth is under a bucket. What type of reaction is determined by when the offender comes to me; before or after the bucket catches on fire.

In a well known movie, a young military lawyer is questioning a commanding office on the witness stand. As tempers rise, the young attorney yells at the Officer that he wants the truth. Equally loud in volume the Officer shouts back, “You can’t handle the truth!”

Is this the roll model believers are to follow in difficult or conflict situations? Does one become judge and jury in deciding if truth can be received and therefore will place it under a bucket if they deem it cannot?

A forest fire of relationships can burn simply because a few truths were put under a bucket. Allowing the bucket to catch on fire causes the priority of self preservation to become primary to truth. Was the Officer correct? Is the truth more than most of us can handle?

It seems like, more often than not, if a few more believers would kick the bucket and speak with truth and love, there would be a few less fires.

What if...

Have you ever found yourself asking the question, "What if?" So many lives can be changed from those two words. In the 4th grade my teacher read a children's book about toys coming to life after all the children had gone to sleep. From that point on, I made sure I played "nicely" with all of my toys. Think about it, what if they did come to life when I was sound asleep? In my child's mind, an anger toy roaming around while I was resting was not a comforting thought.

Remember Y2K? Everyone prepared for everything to happen and nothing happened. Wouldn't it make a great story if there was more to Y2K than we all considered? What if it was a cover up for something bigger? What would that look like in a story? What if it started out with something like this--

Y2K

The garbage disposal made the same clunking sound it usually did when an object of challenging size was forced down its throat. Katherine looked over at Mike. He snapped the newspaper as he turned the page and held it a little higher to block the accusing look he received. Before Katherine could question Mike about the object he had broken, her eyes caught sight of a small blocked article in the right hand corner of the paper. The only words that Katherine could read from where she was standing were Missing Child.

Quickly wiping her hands on the dish towel, she shoved enough of the towel into her jean pocket to hold it in place and walked over to Mike. He was taken by surprise as she snatched the page that caught her attention.

“Hey, wait a minute, it wasn’t my fault—” Mike had been mentally preparing for his defensive argument when she abruptly removed part of the paper.

After spewing out his best defense, Mike realized his words had fallen on disinterested ears as he saw the scowl on Katherine’s face along with her rapidly moving lips. Usually when she was focused on reading anything she silently moved her lips. Mike told her it gave him the willies, but after 10 years of marriage, she told him to get use to it. He never did and turned his attention back to the headlines he was reading in the local part of the news.

He intentionally pulled the Mariner's baseball cap further down to obstruct his view of his wife's neurotic habit.

“Not another one.” Katherine finally whispered. Mike glanced up to show interest and hoped the object in the garbage disposal had been forgotten until he could move it to the outside trashcan.

“Another what, Kat?”
“Child.”
“Hmm?” Mike slightly rose from his chair to get a better look at the page Katherine was holding.
“Another child, Mikey. Another one is missing.” Reading through the brief article again, Katherine absent-mindedly started to pick at her lip. Mike hated this behavior more than when she silently moved them.

“Kat, stop.” Mike reached up and pulled her hand away from her face and continued to pull her down until she sat on his lap. Now he knew she was really distracted. Usually she protested when he tried to get her to sit on his lap. That went out the door year eight of their marriage.

Removing the baseball cap, Mike encircled his arms around her waist. He could still smell the honeysuckle shampoo she had used that morning. He loved the natural waviness of her dark brown hair and was glad she had keep her hair long after their marriage.

Most of the time she pulled it back in a ponytail, but this morning her hair loosely rested down her back. Gently wrapping a handful of her dark locks in his hand, Mike barely inhaled a complete breath before she wiggled free and stood over the paper she had laid to rest on the table. So much for affection.

Her eyes quickly traveled up to the page identification number. She already knew the page number—two.

Same page, same location nothing was different about the small article most people probably overlooked. That’s where the article always was, page two bottom right hand corner, covering a one inch by two inch blocked off section with the heading Missing Child. The first sentence of the article did not surprise her either.
Ear of birth—the typo glared at her. The “y” was missing in the word year.

“Every time the same typo, Mikey.”

He looked searchingly on the page for the article that disturbed Katherine. Realizing Mike did not see what was obvious to her; Katherine huffed and slammed her finger onto the article.

“It’s right there. It’s in the same place with the same mistake every time. Why don’t you know where to look?”

“Because I don’t look for it every time.” Mike did not try to hide his irritation.

“Look, Kat, I know it’s not easy for you when you see this, but constantly searching the paper for these articles can only hurt you more.”

Throwing the dishcloth over her shoulder, Katherine glared at Mike before she headed back to the sink. Having formulated her thoughts, she turned and said, “I didn’t look for the article. You held up the paper, remember?”

She intentionally flipped the switch on the disposal as she stare angrily at her husband. Without the water to soften the noise, the sound of broken glass in the disposal was unmistakable.

Mike started to open his mouth to argue his defense, but the look on Katherine’s face dared him to deny his guilt.

Shoving the rest of the paper aside, Mike quickly rose and snatched up his Mariner's cap. “I give up” he said as he brushed past her. She waited until she heard the back door slam before she moved away from the sink.

Retrieving the kitchen scissors, Katherine carefully cut out the article on page two.

Opening the desk draw under the flour and sugar canisters on the counter, she pulled the manila envelope from under the scattered tool in the drawer. Briefly, she looked at the content. In the corner of each of the previous articles she had saved, Katherine had written “Y2K.” This was her identifying abbreviation for the missing children.

It was a lot shorter to write Y2K than it was to write “missing ‘y’ in article on page two about missing kids”. She wrote her identifying mark, Y2K, and date on the new article before she placed it in the envelope.

In January of 1999, Katherine did not know how close she was to knowing the truth about all that haunted her.

Incurable Fever

Being home alone with my dad, felt like a death sentence. The sentencing wasn’t because of the relationship, but was due to being out of school. I loved school and I loved learning. No ferocious learner wants to hear, “you’re too sick to go to school.” After offering up my weak arguments in an attempt to change my parents’ decision, I ceased pursuing the issue when they threatened to call the doctor. Doctors meant shots; that was worse than a death sentence. My fate was sealed when Mom drove my brother to school—alone.

Moping from room to room dragging my prison garb of a warn-out blanket, I continued to sigh, sneeze and sniffle. Finally Dad, my warden, had had enough.

“Why don’t you write?” he suggested.
“What?”
“Write a poem.”
“Why?”
“What else are you going to do?”
Touché.

With paper and pencil in hand, I prepared to write my first poem. After staring at a blank page for quite some time, I decided to stare at my Dad. Putting the newspaper down, he broke the silence.

“What now?”
“How do I start?”
“Start what?”
“Writing a poem?”
“You just start.” He indicated the conversation was over when he walked out of the room.

Great. You don’t tell a nine year-old stuck at home who wants to be in school to just start something with no further instructions. Initially, the only thing that started was the sighing again. I stared out of the large picture window and watched the clouds.

Can I write a poem about clouds? I wondered. Scribbling, erasing, and more scribbling, produced a six line attempt at writing my first poem. Dad walked backed into the room and tentatively I asked if he wanted to hear what I had written. He listened as read the short poem that ended with these two lines:

"Maybe yes or maybe no,
I hope the clouds will never go."

The words of encouragement Dad shared are lost in my memory, but they were enough for me to turn over the page to write another poem. Dad placed his hand on my forehead and frowned.

“Fever is rising; we probably should call the doctor.”

That was the first time I experienced the death of inspiration, but only for the moment. The sickness and fever that kept me out of school that day became a memory in the distant past, but I developed a different fever—one for creative writing.

The clouds I saw that day from my parents’ home are gone, but the clouds of desiring to write never left. Writing is a process. There are "maybe yes" seasons in my life for writing and some "maybe no" seasons. The incurable fever my dad started on that fateful day I hope will never leave.

Why don’t you write?

Hmmm, I think I will.