pushy passion

A friend and I were discussing passion this week. He asked me to consider my underlying passion of writing. He asked me to wrestle with what drives me to write, and what, if I had the choice, I’d be known for writing.

I didn’t have an answer for him. I still don’t know that I do.

Easy answers slip through my brain, sounding pat and hollow: I want to write challenging, honest pieces; poems describing pain and trying, essays presenting a different way to see something previously known.

When I first started writing, I just wrote. No thought given to what I might be putting out there, words flowed. Now I wonder if what I want to say is appropriate or family-friendly. Questions about worthiness plague me.

I’m not funny like Jon Acuff or cool like Anne Lamott. They’re different people, with different experiences; they write what they know.

What I know is dark and weird. And I wonder if I fixate on it, if I’m just an emo chick in denial.

See, my dad was messed up. He heard voices that were angry and violent. But he’d forget to pay bills or take my brother or me to the doctor. So I know what it’s like to be poor, eating tuna with ketchup or mustard. But it was better than being hungry.

I know, too, how to be angry; how to cling to things that are malevolent at their core. Pain festers, but if it’s all that remains, can survive beatings and time, it starts to look like a trustworthy friend. And after a few years, the cost of a soul doesn’t seem so significant when you have something you can depend on.

Being normal when I never have been before is new. Trusting joy and good things to not disappear feels like ziplining towards a tree.

Christians love a good redemption story, but they’re not always keen about being involved in one. Sin’s messy, and hurt can cling.

I don’t know why I have to write or what I might end up exploring. But the known doesn’t require faith. But faith, by definition, requires courage. And courage drives passion.

Here's to day three and passion that pushes.