Let's Pretend that we're writing a book

The book is a STORY

The opening line of the 1st chapter is:** “Life is a perilous journey”**

How would you continue this story, this dialog?

God Bless you,
Patrick

but without taking some risks, we would go nowhere at all.

It all began one day in church when I thought I heard the voice of Jesus speaking to me.

Life is a perilous journey, and little Candace hated to get up in the morning. The man in the kitchen was already up, ranting at her mother over something. Life was never peaceful since Mom allowed her boyfriend Ed to move into their small, modest home on the hill. Candace was smacked around more than once by this man who had tattoos running up and down his torso, this man who thought children should be seen and not heard. Unfortunately her mother did not defend her against him. She always told Candace to behave herself and quit irritating Ed…

Note:
I am involved in a writer’s group and was considering writing about domestic violence, why some people allow this sort of thing and not fight back.

In need of protection Candace prayed and God prevailed by sending in Social Services and making her world a better place.

BTW-I care not for Arizona Fat Girl’s story line.:frowning:

And DID you? And what was your response?

PRAY Much my friend

I’m not crazy about it eater, BUT it’s a SAD reality and needs to be addressed.

Yes, she can write what she wishes, and I know where she was coming from and why, but I was viewing the story line as a kind of light entertainment. We see so much of the real world that I just was not expecting it here. Sorry if I tossed a wrench into the fan. Peace.

Every opinion shared is valid for consideration. I was aslo surprised at it, BUT it certainly is a part of the world we live in.

God Bless you

Patrick.

Life is a perilous journey. Sometimes it seems nice enough – a nice, well-laid-out path through a lush meadow; just stay on the trail and enjoy it – but sometimes I pay too much attention and look too much at the flowers without thinking about where I’m going, and I look up and find myself on a two-foot-wide trail (if I’m lucky) straddling a cliff, the icy wind searing my back, everything telling me to stop right now because the destination isn’t worth it.

It is, of course. Things have a strange tendency to lie to me.

Sometimes I trip and fall, even up there on those icy cliffs when I can’t afford to fall because I don’t know if I’ll ever get back up, and I think for a second as I fall, the fall lasting anywhere from five seconds to an hour: “Man, this is going to hurt.” And then I hit bottom at a hundred and ten miles an hour and everything breaks, shatters into a million pieces, and I’m trapped at the bottom of a desolate canyon, bleeding out, nothing but a pile of shards regretting everything I’ve ever done to slip up, thinking, “LORD, it hurts.” (And then thinking, “No kidding.”) And all I can do is ask for the strength to get up, because I know it’s my job to get out of this icy gorge, this pit of despair. But I can’t, because I’m a million splattered pieces all over a rock face.

So I ask for one thing. I ask at the top of my lungs, screaming into the blackness. Just this once. Even though we both know I’m going to need it again.

I ask for the ability to pull myself together. That’s it.

And He, in His mercy, grants it.

And slowly, veritably slowly, I pull myself back together, the scalded pieces reassembling into something vaguely resembling what I was and I slowly stand up on my own two feet, marveling at my continued existence.

It’s not perfect. I’m scarred. I always will be. It still hurts. But I’m strong enough to hobble out of that canyon, a sharp rock for a crutch, slowly working my way out, back to the trail, back to reality.

Back to my home.

Back, away from exile.

Back to where we all belong.

Thanks

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