The Purchased One

“I paid for that one.” The young man’s voice sliced through the mummers of the high school cafeteria.

I glanced in the direction of the four teenagers who stood around a table. Backpacks, with papers sticking out of half-closed notebooks, and jackets were slung on the backs of chairs or dropped at their feet. A couple of brown lunch bags sat on the table along with a dozen or more carnations.

“Who gave you that one?” Hannah asked.

Kayleigh giggled. “I don’t know.” She flipped open the piece of paper attached to the stem of a pink flower. Both girls leaned their heads together and read the note. They looked at each other and laughed.

“Well?” Scott crossed his arms and waited. The girls giggled again. Kayleigh placed the flower back on the table and picked up another one.

I lost interest in grading papers and studied the group of high school kids. With my first year teaching at the school, I’d not experienced their Valentine’s Day tradition before. Prior to the student’s arrival, the office looked like a florist. Throughout the day, students delivered flowers, that'd been purchased the previous week, to teachers and classmates. Excitement rose at the school as young girls (and guys) received carnations from their friends.

“I really did pay for that one,” Ryan said again and pointed to a carnation. His friends laughed.

“What’s the big deal? So you paid for one. Not like Kayleigh needs another flower.” Scott poked Ryan in the shoulder.

“No. I bought it for me,” he said.

The three students glanced at each other before they burst into laughter.

“Dude, what’s up with that?” Scott said loud enough to draw the attention of others at nearby tables.

The girls interlocked their arms and stared at Ryan.

He put his hands in his pockets and shrugged.

“Because I’m worth it.” The center of the basketball team walked toward the lunch line.

Ryan's classmates looked at each other, but this time no one laughed.

“Hey, wait up,” Scott said. He leaped over a backpack and caught up with his friend.

The girls followed.

I sat there and wondered if that’s what Jesus said about me.

“I bought that one,” Jesus told his adversary.

“Why?” Satan snickered as he remembered all of my inabilities and failures.

“Because she’s worth it.”

Happy Valentine’s Day

Swimming to Shore

When I attended my first writer’s conference, I realized I’d been tossed, not in the deepest part of a pool, but in the vastness of an ocean and told to find land.

Drowning—a strong possibility.

What’s a pitch? Does it involve a ball?

Tagline? Isn’t that a game?

What does an elevator have to do with writing?

I swam toward a shore that spoke a language I didn’t understand. When I reached my first “dingy” at the conference, I listened to all the dos and don’ts when meeting editors, publicists and others in the industry. Writing them down helped me as I completed (in one afternoon) all the don’ts and struggled to remind myself of the dos. After three meetings with editors and the drowning process well underway, I didn’t know my genre (fiction is not the answer) and tried to process that my writing fell into three categories—good, lacking, and awful.

In the evening session, one speaker shared the words I needed to hear.

“If you want to write, you must remember two things.”

I sat on the edge of my seat, pen poised, and waited.

“Writer’s must develop rhino skin. And you will still bleed.”

I rested my pen on my notebook and clung to the words tossed my way like a life jacket—words that changed my perspective.

I will bleed. Disappointments are unavoidable and certain realities in life cause me to hurt. But bleeding’s apart of life. Healing can only take place after I bleed. Difficult times aren’t meant to destroy me, but make me stronger. In the end, strength, like the skin of a rhino, develops.

Less than two years later, I attended another conference and relished the time I spent learning more about the craft.

“You’re glowing.” The director said to me after a critique session.

I nodded. I’m learning how to swim. The shore’s much closer.