Present at the Beginning

(Sunrise from outside our window last Saturday morning, August 8)

It is a special thing when someone trusts you with their words.

A blogging friend, someone living within mere miles of my home but who I only know through cyberspace, asked if I would read the beginnings of a memoir she is writing.

We have only been friends (I can say this, I think, because I consider her a friend, I do) for several weeks now. But she is the type of person who I feel like I have known forever.

I was restless tonight, bubbling over with the frustration of things out of my control, of double-standards to the nth degree, and not being able to do anything about it. Anything I blogged tonight would be charbroiled by those frustrated flames. Instead, I settled in here on the couch with the prologue to a manuscript. And read. And cried. (The story I was reading and my frustration both played a role, I think. Moreso the story.)

My friend doesn’t know this, but I have always wanted to read a book in progress, and so I have.

I believe in this story, in my friend’s ability to tell this story.

Of the promise that comes with the dawn of something new.
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