“Emma Pearl Ramsey…is a poet and hopeful novelist, a literature enthusiast, and inspired by all things creative. She loves vintage fashion and black and white movies. When she is not studying for her BFA in Creative Writing, she lives at a place called Rambellwood Farm, a green and growing place way out in the Piney Woods of East Texas, where she and her sisters cook food, make jam, and sing in four part harmony. She co-writes her blog, A Banner of Crimson, with two of those sisters, Johanna and Grace.”
Today I am honored to introduce you to a lovely writer and beautiful soul who hails from my own sweet Texas. She has long blessed me by her poetry and prose shared online. I am also pleased to include photography by her beautiful and talented sister, Johanna. Sit down and savor this one, friends! -Everly
The day is bright, and warm, languid with the moist heat of a Texan summer. I am sitting in a chair, my notebook a quiet weight against my knees, my pen cool and firm against my fingers.
I am not writing. I am making a list. The kitchen, clean after lunch dishes, presents a shining face, oblivious to the ambitious plans my fingers are tracing across a lined page. Dinner must be made, a good, healthy meal, something to soothe the ten souls I am feeding.
But, sitting there, the pen wrapped between my fingers, I long to forget the garlic to peel and the cheese to grate. I long to drown myself in story, to feel the images shed from rapid fingers, swift as the words falling from my heart.
But no, dinner must be made…
and when it is finished and, once again, sparkling and still, my bones will want rest, a cup of tea, a movie, or a book. My desire and passion will be there, waiting inside me, but my motivation will be nonexistent.
Someday, I tell myself, someday. But, when I have my own home, will it be any different? I deceive myself with that small word. Someday. There is no someday. There is now.
Dear Father in Heaven, my desire burns here inside my chest, hot, pounding feverish against my bones. I want to write, to really write, all the time, to watch you work the miracle of words through my fingers.
But I am so weary, so worn by care, and pain and struggle, by life. How do I lift myself, my head, and my heart, and do more?
with Me beside you,
When you wake,
and stumble from your sleep
I will lift you up,
and raise the heaviness from your eyelids.
I will put song on your lips
while your hands peel peaches, soft and rosy
into a bowl.
I will put stories in your head,
while your arms are flushed with warmth,
elbow deep in dishes and soap.
I will strengthen your desire,
not for writing, but for Me,
and in seeking me, My heart will
pound from your pen.
Trust that I can do this
despite the tasks pressed against you
Trust that you are Mine.
So here I go, with all my might, with a prayer, and deep breath, yearning to hold on, and seek Him, and find Him.