Today I do not want to write about a prompt. I do not want to write about “brave.”
I’ve written so much about what we call bravery already anyhow. I wrote about that kind of thing here and here, for instance. And I wouldn’t have called myself brave at those times, because they were mostly about me being timid and trembling and trying like crazy to wiggle out of what God clearly wanted me to do.
The only act I can think of being close to brave in itself is that standoff with the porcupine. It does seem, if I recall rightly, that instinctive protectiveness did somehow kick in then and I went forth because otherwise, something very nasty was likely to happen soon to some poor, dear, dumb sheep.
Hearing about it later, a young man declared to me his wife would never have done that, and I begged to differ with him. If she had a child to protect, I think she would, in a blink. I’m not naturally brave at all, but God does build into us those brave bits for when they’re needed in an instant.
Instinct or not, I did pray my way through that episode. But all the other times I stood and did the “brave” right, it wasn’t instinct or bravery at all, with prayer sprinkled in, but utter dependence on Him all the way! [Stop]
Well, it looks like I wrote it after all. I set the timer and “went at it,” because not only did I not feel like writing about brave, I didn’t feel like writing at all. And exercises like this are good jumpstarts for reluctant, lazy writers! Hm, who knows, now: this wet day just might become a marathon of writing…