with nothing important to say:

Sometimes a blessing, and often a curse, when I read a great sentence or hear some unexpectedly relatable line from a song, I just wish I could stop whatever I'm doing and write.

Today, I stopped at a bookstore and bought a few books after wandering around for a while, scanning the shelves without a plan, waiting for something to jump out at me. After I picked up one or two, I started wondering how other people pick out books, if what I do is normal (probably not). I thought about the books, the lucky ones that have the cover facing outward, sitting on the shelf the wrong way. And the others, sitting patiently, for their lucky day when someone plucks them off the shelf, reads the inside cover, and hangs on to it. Possibly the luckiest are those for which an employee has left a note on the shelf -- "Author's Pick" -- with a blurb on why you will love this book! And for this reason alone, a book in one store might fly off the shelves, while in another store nearby, it sits for years, waiting, lonely.

So I drove to a park after choosing my lucky ones and paid a buck to park in a lot full of homeless people doing drugs, and I traipsed through the woods to a little picnic table near a lake in the shade, pulled out a little book with an egg on the cover, forgot the world around me, and started to read.

Just two pages in, the author told of a time as a child when he looked across the lake and saw it differently; so I can't help but look up, as I am but three feet from a lake, and I began to wonder.

After ten minutes (maybe more, maybe less) of wondering, I closed the book and pushed it further from me on the table because it was just no use, holding it open in front of me like that, for my thoughts were on a runaway train with no chance of going back anytime soon.

At a lake so far from home, I looked out and felt right at home. Nice houses stood across the lake, looking at this simple, otherwise hidden beach with kids playing in the water, their laughter carrying across to the other side, and beyond. And a woman was laying on a raft in front of her big nice house, but she's since drifted nearly all the way to the shore where I sit, and she seems to have no idea, as she's in a state of peacefulness that I can only understand right now.

At some point when I was a child I saw an illustrated picture in a book, depicting the Resurrection, or maybe the Ascension, I honestly can't be sure. The picture showed Jesus standing in the clouds with the sun behind Him, and perfect rays of sun came out from all around Him towards the earth below.

At some point, in the car, I saw the sky lit up in a similar way, as a cloud was only partly obscuring the sun. Straight lines of sun, alternating light, and slightly lighter, seemed to be coming down from the sky. Naturally, when I saw this wondrous sight, I exclaimed to my mom, "Look! Jesus is coming down from Heaven!" to which she replied something along the lines of, "well, that's not exactly what's happening" with a chuckle. I like to think that God is the one who gave me the idea that silly idea, because for the rest of my life, forever, I will think of that day, and I will thank God for looking out for me every time I see those rays of sun lighting up the sky precisely as it is now. And I will smile.

And now I wish I could go back to reading my small book with an egg on the cover because the light is just right, and it really is a very good book so far, but now I am thinking about this girl I met many years ago now. She was my age, but amazing. She wrote her own songs, music, lyrics, all. I was so lucky that she played two of them for me on piano one day. Her voice was incredible, but the lyrics were filled with such gravity, and the music behind the words was otherworldly, as if straight from Heaven. After the first song shocked and revived me all at once, she explained the second song before continuing with it. She had written the second song to encapsulate her best friend's struggles with his faith, a feeling of desolation that wouldn't go away, and feeling unworthy. The first part of the song had beautiful lyrics describing the weight of choosing to sin over and over, feeling far from God, and having a deep sadness within your bones that no one else can see. Then there was a pause, and when the piano continued, the words did not. Somehow, a shift came with the lack of lyrics. Suddenly uplifting, it felt like a cool, gentle breeze on a hot day. It felt like a hug filled with love and care, and everything relaxed, calming the soul, worry nowhere to be found. She explained that this part was intended to be God's response to our desperate prayers; where she couldn't find the words to add, she decided simply to let the piano speak for itself, and surely it did. The beauty of experiencing this left me thinking her talent was handed to her directly from God, and I thought I would never listen to music the same.

I haven't thought of that for several years now, yet somehow, as I hum to myself by this lake in the woods, I realize that I still know every word.

Letting other people read my writing feels like taking your coverup off at the beach; I came to the beach in a swimsuit, yes, but taking this dress off in a public place still feels, for some reason, terrifying, even though I would much rather be wearing my swimsuit than this dress. Letting anyone read my words is terrifying as well, but leaving it unread when it's written seems even worse somehow. Every so often, someone will read something that I wrote, and reach out to tell me they thought it was good. Once, he told me, "Anna, you were born to be a writer," after reading something I wrote, and I fear I will never receive such a meaningful compliment ever again. These words are remembered nearly every time I write, and certainly every time I post my writing. What I don't know, however, is if I have anything important to say. The other day, I expressed this on my finsta, intending it to be a rhetorical question. But an old friend who I haven't heard from in many years commented on the post and said, "that's okay"

what if I have nothing of importance to say?

that's okay.

So maybe my writing wasn't meant to be read. That's okay. But I'm going to leave it here, just in case you want to.