This is how I remember it: in third grade, the teacher introduced some poetry and we were encouraged to write a poem. I’m not certain that is an accurate report of what happened. I just know that I began writing little “poems.” One that I recall:
“The sun is slowly sinking down.
It changes from its golden gown
Into another one of red.
And then it tumbles into bed.
I sent it off to a magazine which rejected it. I was heartbroken.
Eventually, I began to write stories. My father, a printer on the newspaper, brought me home the end of rolls of newsprint paper that kept me supplied for my writing. These stories were made up adventures about my classmates and I was allowed to read them in class by my indulgent teacher. I helped start a school newspaper although I’m not sure we put out more than one edition!
In junior high, we had an English assignment to write a poem. My teacher questioned the authenticity of mine, titled “Winter Sunset,” which hurt my feelings. But she sent it off to the state poetry contest where it placed. I wish I had a copy of it. I only recall it started “The sun’s last feebled-fingered hands spread threads across the sky.” By high school, I was into journalism and was writing articles for the newspaper, but I took up some poetry attempts as well.
I continued writing for school newspapers throughout college, while sometimes composing the occasional poem. One that I wrote during those years, was chosen by my daughter for her high school year book when each senior had to select a quote placed by their school photo. That was a higher honor than winning an award.
I am not a disciplined writer, but I am currently part of a writer’s group at the local library, the Sheepdip Scribes, Sheepdip being the original name of our little burg. The “Scribes” decided to put together a booklet of some of our work. Because I spend most of my time now writing sermons (and blogs!) I haven’t contributed much. I decided to search for the folder with my work from over the years. When I found it, it was like discovering treasures. Some of the works in that folder were in the script in which I had written them years ago, including one poem from a creative writing class in 1976 at a local community college and a poem that had come to me as I was driving from Waco, TX to Oklahoma City, OK. I had composed it mentally and then memorized the verses until my arrival in Oklahoma City when I promptly put it on paper. These are like old friends and reading them feels like I am getting reacquainted. Yet it seems to me, as we age, perhaps we begin to recognize such treasures discovered from our past are embedded in who we are. We ourselves are the treasure.
May we be bearers of hope, the “wait staff” of Hope’s Café for each other and all those we encounter. Shalom, Kate “
Hope’s Café Bonus: “As steady as the tides, life constantly reveals the treasures within us.” emilyquotes.com
Hope's Cafe 