We put a challenge out to Southern Christian Writers Conference members this month to write a personal essay inspired by one of these Spring words: bees, birth, bouquet, parade, or rainy. We asked that the essay be based on a personal experience that can give new insight to the reader.
As is always the case with our writing challenges (which we present via our SCWC community on Facebook), we received many wonderful submissions. It was so hard to narrow the winners down to the ones published below, and we wish we could have given an award to ALL of the essays sent to us.
Congratulations to these writers for their meaningful essays.
1st place: John Voss
2nd place: Shannon Leach
3rd place: Melissa Moore
Honorable mention: Jan White
“An Unbound Bouquet”
by John Voss
Alone and neglected, the old rose stood in the side of the yard struggling to live in the soil where it was planted many years ago. No one knew much about it because it bloomed so infrequently that it was difficult to know its true color.
Honestly, it was hard to tell if it was even a rose bush, and I came very close to digging it up and throwing it away.
But, interestingly, a growing attachment slowly occurred, and I began to id
entify personally and emotionally with the old rose and to see my own life captured and portrayed in its tangled branches. It wasn’t from lack of effort that it didn’t bloom with all the youth and vigor of its bygone days: It was still where it had always been and each year used the meager resources it still possessed to bring meaning and color to those who would momentarily pause by its withered branches.
Life, however, had charted a different course and had steadily moved on, leaving the old rose cemented in the circumstances of its past. The surrounding beauty, vitality, and lovely landscape of its younger years had noticeably shifted to other parts of the yard, leaving the rose alone and abandoned.
The old rose was not the eye-catcher that it once was. Its radiant, red bouquet had been drained away by the unrelenting demands of living and trying to bring joy and happiness to others. Now the rose was faded, frail, and facing its final days, or so it seemed. And there it stood, still doing its best to bloom while admiring eyes now focused on the beauty and appeal of life elsewhere. All of us who have more years behind us than ahead of us know that feeling.
The closer I looked, however, the more I realized the similarity of our existence. The rose had branches that were useless and had not borne a rose blossom in years, and there were significant parts of its life that were a burdensome hindrance and lifeless, dead weight.
I could identify with that. With a weak heart, vision in one eye, increased hearing loss, and body parts that frequently don’t want to all go in the same direction at the same time, I may think that I can still crow like a young rooster, but the truth is the bright, red comb on the top of my gray rooster-head flopped over long ago. Like the old rose, the vitality of life has moved and left me where I was planted.
Surprisingly and sadly, I discovered something else about the rose. It was still bound up in a wire support, similar to a tomato cage, that had been there since it was planted. And for all of its life, the rose had struggled to spread out and bloom, free from the binding shackles that had been there for years, but it could not break itself free.
Yep, that’s me. Things that happened over sixty years ago still haunt me today, and I know those memories will be there until I die. Call it post-traumatic stress from a terribly unhappy childhood that emotionally bound me with a deep sense of insecurity and inferiority, a pervasive fear of rejection, and a lack of comfort in close, personal relationships, but the bundle of emotional burdens left me just like the old rose bush by the side of the yard—still bound up after all these years.
Caringly, I could not leave the rose as I had found it, and so I removed the steel cage shackles and I cut away the dead, unproductive branches. New flower beds were placed nearby, and once again the old rose was surrounded by the beauty and vitality of life. Guess what happened?
After years of unceasing struggles trying to exist and survive while tangled up in forces that bound and strangled it, the rose found a new life. Just like Jesus said He would do with our life when the fruitless and useless branches were pruned away and the shackles of our past were removed, the old rose bush bloomed out in radiant, red flowers. It again became a living bouquet.
The transformation was shocking and inspiring.
All of us have days when we feel alone, neglected, and overwhelmed with burdens. Life has moved on, family and friends don’t call or visit very often, and the beauty and exuberance of youth and good health have moved—they don’t live in this old human house of ours anymore.
We sit alone in the porch rocker and wonder if this is all that’s left.
It can be that way if you’re willing to give up, or you can be like the old rose bush and get rid of useless burdens and baggage in your life that hold you back and make you miserable.
Even as I did, you, too, can discover the joy of writing and sharing your life’s story as an encouragement to others. Through hundreds of devotionals regularly posted on social media in the past few years and writing two religious books, my life has touched many others, and I am deeply thankful. I refuse to remain planted in the past.
Through the power of renewed personal resolve, you can begin now to break free from the shackles of insecurity and uncertainty that have long ensnared you. You can cast aside that which limits you, and for the first time in years—BLOOM! With Jesus’ help, you will be amazed at how beautiful your life can still be—just like the old rose bush, an unbound bouquet of natural beauty, joy, inspiration, and encouragement for all to see and admire.
"Can You Hear Me?"
by Shannon Leach
Dear Jesus,
Here goes nothing. It’s me. Supposedly you already know who me is so I should need no introduction. I think writing this is probably dumb, but it is not like I have anything else to do.
It is raining again. Outside and inside. Nothing but rain. I hate rain. At least the weather matches my mood. I have been crying again for two days and still can’t tell you exactly why. Is it because she hasn’t even called to check on me? Is it
because I am a thirteen-year-old on my own? Is it because the night shift staff are meaner than the ones at my last placement? Is it because I feel alone in a world of thousands of people? To be honest, it is probably all of those. Even if I did know which event had brought on the sadness on this time, it wouldn’t matter.
The tears rarely stop once they start. Just like the rain outside, I have no control over when the drops fall. I hate crying. It makes me look weak. I cannot afford to look weak when the only thing I really have left is my ability to pretend I am strong. That and my words. They will never take my words.
One of the staff here has caught on to my little game. She knows my complaints of stomachaches and headaches are just a show that allow me to stay in here, in this tiny room, and hide under the blankets and be sad. But she called me out on it today. She waltzed in here like she owned the place (now that I think about it—she might), and started talking at me, not even making me sit up and pay attention. She let me stay safe under my blanket, ignoring her like I do the rest, talking away with no indication that I heard anything she said. But I did hear her. I heard everything—which is why I am writing you.
She claims you’re this really impressive fella that hears me all the time. She says I should talk to you when I am sad even though I can’t see you. She says you can forgive anything I have done. That you already know all about me and love me.
Whatever. Since people are always telling me to use my words, I am using them to write you and tell you that I think the stuff she said is all a lie. No one loves me. Not my parents who left me, not the social worker, or the judge, or all the staff. It is all just a game. None of them know a thing about love. They are all talk. But Casey, that staff member, she claims you do. She claims you are like my friend and a dad all in one. She says you love me so much you died for me. Humph. No one does things like that. Especially not dads.
Now look, I am sure you are a great guy. It sounds like you do lots of things for lots of people and are way nicer than most of these weirdos here. But see you have to understand something, you can’t help me. I mean, I have been handling all this for years, all by myself. No one wants to deal with a moody teenage girl. I have accepted that. I know that I am going to live my life out in group homes and that is fine. I am tough—don’t let all this crying fool you—I don’t need anyone to do anything for me, even you. Casey says you can help but I don’t see how that is possible. I can’t even see you—you are not even here for real . . . right?
Well, I just think it is all silliness. Someone who loves me no matter what. Please. Like that exists. Everyone has a motive or an angle. Everyone wants something. Nothing is free. Nothing is that good. I mean come on, I know all about good. It is easy. I just be good and I get privileges, I get privileges and then I get freedom.
The only problem is I don’t feel that free. Actually, I feel like I am in prison. Why do I feel like that? See . . . no answer. Just as I expected.
It really is a broken system. I was a good kid. Straight A student. Followed all the rules. Took care of my baby brother. I had a few moments that were rough when I was exhausted and angry, but overall I was good. See where that got me? One way ticket into foster care. Good isn’t worth as much as people think it is. To be honest, all people are bad. And if you know as much as Casey says you do, then you already know that. Don’t you? You know the things they do when they are thinking no one is watching, right? There are some really bad people in this world.
I have met several.
Here is another one for you, if you know all about the bad, then why? Why are the good people here crying under blankets while the others have all the freedom in the world? That is really not fair. Really. Not. Fair.
But for Casey’s sake I will play along. She seems like a nice lady, and I have tried everything else, so here goes nothing. Jesus, I want a home. I want a place to feel safe. I want some parents who love me more. I want to be a teenager. Just a go to a school dance, do my homework, and make friends kind of teenager. I don’t want to be here anymore. Can you hear me? Hello?
See—nothing. I told you this was all a . . .
Huh. Well how about that. My social worker just showed up. She told me to pack.
She said there are foster parents who want met to come live with them. Real foster parents at a house with a mom and a dad. Did you do that? Did you hear me? Maybe . . . I mean . . . should I . . . oh never mind. Well, I still don’t think all that stuff Casey said was true, but that was either a really big coincidence or . . . nah. That kind of love is just not possible. It is too perfect. Sorry, I just can’t believe that.
But I got to go pack because I am heading to my first real foster home! Oh, and just in case you are real, thanks for the bonus. They said I am going to get my own room. This is crazy. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to talk to you occasionally or write to you or something, I mean people journal to no one and talk to imaginary friends all the time. What could it hurt to just give you a few of my words . . . I have plenty.
Oh, it stopped raining. Good. If you did that too, thanks. I really hate the rain.
Love, Catch ya later,
Shannon
"Spring of Deception"
by Melissa Moore
It is spring in the woods -or rather ‘Spring of Deception,’ as my Facebook friends say. Mother Nature is a tricky girl, giving us false hope and warm wishes, then dashing them by her lingering flirtation with Jack Frost. Even on his way out, she is coy and calling as he reaches back through the pines with whispers and
cold kisses. He will go and she knows it, but still, it breaks her heart, and causes her tears to flow the rivers high and the earth to warm low.
As I make my way through the woods to the old cabin, I can hear the creek running beside me, water bubbling and bustling through fallen logs and branches. It’s not a pretty creek; it runs cold and dark with the tannins from the trees. Later in summer when the sun has warmed it and it slows to a lazy trickle, it
will be full of life. Turtles will sun themselves on logs, the fish will waggle by, and an occasional snake will slide silently down the bank, an errand of some sort on his mind.
The old cabin has been here forever, at least in my mind. Two rooms, three windows, a fireplace, and a porch. A kitchen used to be on the back but that had to be torn down for safety reasons. I am the safety reason. I have never been able to stay away from this place from the time I was a child. It is an easy path
to follow, wide and shaded with trees. At one time it used to be a county road, but the country grew tired of it and the woods slowly reclaimed it. The cabin is not far off the old road, tucked back behind the understory and hidden by hardwoods. It sits in a glorious site. An ancient oak sits off to the side, it’s trunk sturdy and straight and a limb perfect for a swing. I should put one up again, I think. Old women like swings too. Maybe not to try and touch the clouds with my toes this time, but maybe to swing with the breeze and just let things be.
It could happen.
Behind the cabin I find the bees. They were my grandmother’s bees and her mamas before her. My mama was scared of them, but it was ok because they were mine by the time I was seven. The bees knew it, I knew it and my grandmother knew it. It wasn’t long before everyone in the county knew it too.
Though I am old now, I am still the Bee Girl or more accurately, the Old Woman with the Bees. Jonquils have pushed their way up in places and wave cheerfully to me as I pass. They too have been there ‘forever’ and I have made many a happy May Day bouquet with them for mama. Today I ease myself down carefully in front of the bees trying not to crush the flowers. Today I must tell the bees.
This custom has been in my family for as long as anyone can remember-all news good, and especially bad, must be told to the bees. When my grandmother died, I came as a child barefoot from the church to tell them. My mother had stopped me on my way and while I thought she meant to keep me from them, she handed me the black scarf and nodded. I had forgotten. They must be in mourning too. I went to the bees and settled myself in silence before them. Slowly and quietly, I draped their hives in the black and sat back down in front of them. Through sobs and tears I told them grandmother had died.
Years later I sat before them again in an elegant black dress (but still barefoot) to drape them and tell them mama had died. I have made several trips since them, some with good news and some with bad and always barefoot. Today, I needed to talk. I am wearing shoes and I have carried my Bible with me, a first for both of us.
I talked with them till the shadows grew long and the breeze became cold again. I don’t remember what we talked of, or what passages I read them, but then my memory is not what it used to be. At least that’s what I tell people. My memory is exactly as it has always been. They called me slow when I was younger, now they quietly whisper other words behind my back. The bees know better, and they will
remember my words just as they did my mama’s and my grandmother’s. Our words are embedded in every honeycomb for every generation of bees. It is in their DNA, so the forgetting never really happens.
My memory will slip as did my mama’s and her mama, but the bees will always remember. I comfort myself with that thought as I walk back to the cabin and sit on the porch. From there I can barely make out the cane syrup mill hidden in the trees and the open shed that holds the vat the syrup was cooked in. Beyond my sight is the pond. It was a wonderful place for a feral, ‘slow’ child to grow up.
Away from this place disease runs rampant, a war has begun, and inflation far outpaces everyone’s earnings. Worry and fear feed the headlines. Here none of that exists-it is impossible. The bees carry on, the creek still runs, and Jack Frost still blows frosty kisses through the trees. His time here will end, but he will be back. The cycle never breaks. I need to remember this.
My Bible falls open and I see the words “My tongue will proclaim your righteousness, your praises all day long." Wars have been fought, famines and diseases have come and go. Bones break, hearts break, but …God is faithful.
Under the eave of the cabin porch is an ancient cane pole. How it has survived all these years I’ll never know. Old Moses had tucked it up there, so he didn’t lose it. At least that’s what he told me. Most likely it was to keep it out of my reach, so I didn’t take off with it and head to the pond without him. Back then there was an alligator in that pond, and he feared for my safety. I feared nothing. I wondered if Old Moses knew when he tucked that thing back up there for the last time, it would be the last time. I wonder if we all knew that the last time is the last time, would we hold back? Would it be bittersweet?
Would we try and hold onto it forever? Yes, to all of it, I’m sure. Another little trick, a deception of Mother Nature to ensure the seasons unfold, and time moves on. I wish I still feared nothing.
Through blurry eyes I see a bee has landed on my knee. Did Grandmother send her? I’d like to think so, but most likely the breeze has caught her by surprise and she’s cold. I slip my finger under her and blow warmly across her wings. She wiggles a bit as I tuck her safely into a jonquil and stand to go. I miss the old days, and I miss when my skin used to fit, and my eyes could see clear. There is a limp in my step now and grey in my hair. I am reminded my youth is gone forever, and if I forget you can be assured someone will remind me. As I walk back, I stop in front of the oak. It is still just as majestic as always and study it with a critical eye.
Yes, a swing will do.
"Bloom Where You're Planted"
by Jan White
A remarkable event occurs in our yard in early Spring each year. The redbud tree, with its purple blooms, signals the arrival of the season.
Tiny blossoms begin to appear on its bare branches. Bees are abuzz announcing the birth of new life.
Our family has always looked forward to the few weeks the beautiful redbud tree displays its flowering branches. After Easter, the small blossoms form a colorful carpet beneath the tree and green leaves will replace the flowers until Fall.
To understand what makes this event remarkable, you have to know what happened to this tree over twenty years ago. The day after Hurricane Opal left her mark on our county, we walked outside to find the redbud tree had been blown down into our driveway. It was one of six trees the storm snapped or uprooted.
Due to the damage, we cut through the trunk and hauled away the leafy branches. Only the stump remained, pulled to a ninety degree angle by the winds until most of the roots were exposed.
To our delight and wonder, the next year we discovered tall, wire-like branches shooting upward from the side of the lifeless-looking stump. On the branches were the tiny flowers that tell us winter is over.
Looking at the new life on the redbud tree every Spring reminds me of the real message of Easter. God’s creation seems to be telling His Son’s story of death and resurrection. Jesus once said, “I am the resurrection and the life: he that believes in Me though he were dead, yet shall he live” (John 11:25 KJV). Ministers often refer to this scripture to comfort the family of a deceased loved one who was a Christian. Those who believe in Christ do have the promise of a reunion in heaven.
But Jesus’ words apply to every one of us today. Without a personal relationship with Jesus, you and I are dead as a result of sin; but John 3:16 and Romans 6:23 say believers will receive eternal life.
The redbud tree also reminds me of what it’s like to live a Christian life. As the Apostle Paul put it, believers should be rooted in Christ, meaning firm in their faith according to Colossians 2:6 - 7.
You may feel like the storms of life have beaten you down. Circumstances may have seemingly uprooted your faith. No matter what has happened, look upward toward the Son. You’ll find a ray of hope that will help you bloom where you’re planted.
It might surprise you to know that Albert Einstein said the words, “Bloom where you’re planted,” to a fellow scientist who was complaining about his low pay and mediocre research assignment. To make his point, Einstein reportedly pointed to a blade of grass that had broken through a slab of concrete.
Someone once said, “An oak tree is an acorn that stood its ground.” Look up to the Son, stand tall, and bloom where you’re planted.
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Thank you to all of our members for their inspiring submissions. We love showcasing your talent!
(If you'd like to keep updated with our monthly writing challenges and other activities, join us on our Facebook page at the "Southern Christian Writers Conference" group.
And join us this June 3-4 for the annual Southern Christian Writers conference in Birmingham, Alabama. It will be filled with a plethora of information and inspiration for writers of faith like you. Three keynote speakers, 17 workshops, meals, and much more--PLUS, a virtual option if you need it. Registration opens on April 1.)