Kelli J Gavin - Story Teller

Tuesday, January 28, 2020

Pain and Comfort

(A quote from Outlander in the Gaidhlig dialect.)

A friend sent a text the other night that broke my heart. It seemed like each day, each time we communicated, whether by phone or text, there was something else that had been added her to load. Marriage communication issues, children with the inclination to disobey, friends who are hurtful, lack of resources at school for another child, unable to find a job that pays enough and has the insurance coverage needed to benefit their entire family, recurring health problems. The list was long. The list was heavy and burdensome. The list continued to have new issues added to it.

How much can one person handle? How much can a person take before they break? Where does the hope come from? Are we called to suffer and experience pain? These are the questions that flood our minds when we think of pain and suffering.

I called her back immediately, and I told my friend how sorry I was that each day seemed to be so challenging. I told her that she was loved, and that I would like to pray with her and that I would like to continue praying for her. She glad received the invitation to pray together.

I also wanted to also dive into Truth with her.

As we read scripture together, using our Bible Study Tools app, we read that it wasn't that we MIGHT suffer, the Bible states, WHEN we suffer, not if. It is a given. We also found that suffering isn't constant, suffering isn't a punishment, and suffering can produce great joy. WHAT? Joy? We found that there is HOPE. And we found that in suffering, we can also find comfort.

No, my friend's problems will not be solved overnight. But by praying Truth, by digging into the Word, Hope and Encouragement can be found.

What burdens you tonight? I encourage you to pray while you are suffering. Pray while you are hurting. Pray even when you are waiting for other prayers to be answered. Just keep praying. Open the bible and dive in. Truth is yours for the taking.

Book Authority

My Name Is Zach made it to the Best Special Needs Books of All Time!

I'm happy to announce that my book, "My Name Is Zach: A Teenage Perspective On Autism", made it to BookAuthority's Best Special Needs Books of All Time:
https://bookauthority.org/books/best-special-needs-books?t=cp9io3&s=award&book=1082780677
BookAuthority collects and ranks the best books in the world, and it is a great honor to get this kind of recognition. Thank you for all your support!
The book is available for purchase on Amazon.

Friday, January 17, 2020

Abandoned

I have always loved exploring. Whether it is a building, a forest, a mountainside, it doesn't really matter to me. If I haven't been there before, I will always want to see it. I want to walk hills I haven't tread prior. I want to sit in the tall grasses and make braided crowns with my children. I also want to walk where someone may have never walked before. Each adventure bears a story that should be shared.

Sometimes dirty, unsafe, and long abandoned shanties, homes and buildings catch my eye. I am normally a rule follower. But something has changed in me. When a No Trespassing sign is posted, it is as if I throw all caution to the wind and view it now as a Challenge Accepted. I have never been caught per se, but I have been yelled at, police have been called and I have needed to pick up the speed and head back to where I came from more quickly than I had wished. It is almost as if I have lead my entire life was a law abiding citizen, and I am now rebelling.

I wish I could draw or paint. I wish I was talented photographer. I want to capture the curvature of the banisters. The panes of stained glass, few of which remain. I want to scrub the kitchen counter clean and imagine when the last meal was prepared in that setting. I want to capture long forgotten beauty so that others may also enjoy it before it is completely gone.

As a child I remember standing in the doorway of a ready to fall down shanty a ways back in the woods. Not sure who ever owned the land, I know that many other people had already scavenged and found the last few treasures that were meant to be unearthed. I didn't mind that there was nothing left for the taking. I wasn't there, standing in that doorway, desiring to take anything from the dwelling. I wanted to capture the stories of those that once called it home. I wanted to to know who stood where I stood.

Was there a young mother who dried her hands on her apron as she called to her children to return home for dinner? Was there a husband who rocked on his front porch after a long day in the fields? Did a boy whittle a toy sword on those front stairs that had long collapsed so that could play with his friends? Were corn cob dolls laid in a basket to rest by a little girl before she tended to her afternoon chores after the heat of the day had passed?

These were the story snapshots that I created. The fictitious tales that were probably very close to true events. I committed them and many more to memory as if they were stories that were shared with me.

The next summer, when I returned to the homestead, the modest two room structure had fallen to the ground. The splintered sides of the door frame where all that stood. The wood walls laid scattered in small piles here and there. And evidence of someone sorting through what could be salvaged was apparent. To most, it was the remnants of an abandoned fallen structure. To me, it was memories of a family home that I was never invited into but loved.

There are amazing stories everywhere we look. And most of those stories are lost until we tell them or share them with others.

Be intentional about your storytelling. Be overt in your explorations. Leave the treasures behind. But those stories? Take those stories with you. Share them and share them often.

Saturday, January 11, 2020

May the Night Take Me

May the Night Take Me

for Writers Unite!

By: Kelli J Gavin

I can’t do this anymore. I live my life waiting. Waiting for my next meal or for it

to rain. Waiting to find something to catch the rain in. Hoping it will be today. I wait

to hopefully smell coffee brewing again one day, but until then, I hold my mug and

remember a time when drinking the first cup each morning was the best part of my day.

I wait for the hunger to subside, and for that pain deep in my gut to lessen. I wait for all

of this to end. But will it? Will it ever be any better? The only way out is death. I pray

some nights I will die in my sleep. Yet I continue to rise at dawn each new day.

I used to wait for Carrie to return. She must have been overcome by the road gangs.

I wished that would happen to me. Not that I could have taken her place, more so that

I would have been with her and benefited from the same fate. A fate that meant I

wouldn’t be here anymore. Waking up each morning and taking my first conscious breath,

I wish for death. It is the only thing I wish for anymore.

Carrie and I had been together for 10 years before the invasion. 10 years is never

enough time when you are with the love of your life. She made me feel like a better man,

one that could and would succeed because Carrie was by my side. My wife, my

cheerleader, the lover of my soul.

When I ripped my leg open on a fence I was attempting to jump over, Carrie said she

would go in search of medication, antibiotics, anything that could help me. She wouldn’t

look at me, but kissed me hard and told me she loved me. Loved me so much it hurt. As

I laid in that bed wincing from the pain in my leg, I didn’t ask her to promise she would

return to me.

The first six months, I believed she was coming back. The next two years, I let my thoughts

get the best of me. Carrie left me, lied about getting medication and never had any plans

of returning. How can it be true? If she even felt an ounce of what I have always felt for her,

she would never be able to live separate from me. I was knitted to her and she to me. At least

that is what I have convinced myself. Something must have happened to her.

My leg has never fully healed, yet I was able to rid myself of infection. The scarring is

still painful to the touch and my pronounced shuffle of my weakened leg announces my

arrival at our community meetings. The community meetings I now run. I am in charge.

A small group of 37 which was once a large group of 94. Sickness raged and many

have given up. Given up in the night. Given up on the hope a new dawn sometimes brings.

For now I will stay. I will lead this hodgepodge group. I will direct and mediate. Until

we decide what to do next. But then, I will pray again that the night will take me.