The Saturday Journal: Some Stories take Longer

tathelmillerwriter
May 2
5 min read

I was in my little writing room with my oldest granddaughter–and she glanced down at my desk where the stack of papers lay–the papers held together by a single large paper clip and then she looked up at me–her smile wide–'ooh, is that a story?'

Yes, it is. But it's not new.

The assignment--the short story started in a classroom in 2002--my first semester back in college--I was in my early forties. The class "Creative Writing" and the students in the class--there were maybe fifteen--twenty of us--ranging from 18 years of age to sixty-plus.

The class met once a week--it was a three-hour night class and one of my favorite classes. We wrote a lot that semester--read a lot, and our biggest assignment came at the end of the semester--write a short story--fiction--and the story, 5000 words or more--I can't recall exactly. And the story, it could be a work in process.

And 'Make a copy for everyone,' the professor explained. 'Then everyone will take the stories home–read them, and the next time we meet, be prepared to discuss--critique each story.

Discuss. Critique.

Putting your heart out there on paper--and sharing--it's a scary thing–

Some of my classmates loved my story--and some suggested changes--I appreciated their feedback--even though it was hard.

And the professor, he made the comment, 'You want to be a journalist, a war correspondent–is that in your heart?'

No, for heaven’s sake! No!

But, my interest in learning more about those who served as war correspondents, photographers in war zones, women and men who served–it had peaked at an all time high and I wrote articles, poems, and research papers for my creative writing class and communication classes--researching war correspondents and photographers–in the Middle East, Vietnam....

Their stories--I couldn't shake them....

The preacher--we’ve known each other for a long time–high school friends–anyway, he was at his workplace–the same one we shared for a while–a place where our paths didn't cross often. I saw him in the hallway one day--and we talked for a few minutes and then he said, 'I have an idea for a story for you. I can’t put it into words like you can. Maybe you can use it one day.'

The preacher's story--it is a beautiful story.

Many a minutes have past since that first conversation with the preacher and his story has not left me. I saw him recently and he said, 'Have you had an opportunity to use my story yet?'

Not yet, but I'm working on it.

And thus, this story–my assignment which then was titled, Angels in the Midst of War--I've changed the title at least twice--the story of Laura, Elina, Ben and others has evolved over the last twenty plus years--went into different directions--down different roads.

And when the preacher shared with me his story--little did he know, nor did I--his story--it would be what I needed to finish Ben's story--write the final chapter of Finding Home.

Finding Home--it's close to print--I'm still learning this 'e-book' thing and will possibly have some hard copies as well--prayerfully late summer.

For now and on occasion--until then, I hope you will enjoy excerpts from Finding Home on The Saturday Journal.

Finding Home

If you don’t go, you can’t return.

Finnish Proverb

She strums her fingers across the patchwork of photographs from her past–the faces faded. There’s worn newspaper clippings scattered on the desk. Her journals open–still the memories cut tender places of her heart–the fear--some days as strong as the days she lived them. She touches the scar on her forehead. And then she sees it–a letter–one that doesn’t belong in her past–and the letter–the words she reads in silence–Urgent Need for Teachers in Afghanistan. Words that would send her falling to her knees--sobbing--crying out, “Please God, no! Please no!”

“Lorie, come to my office!” Harry yells as he slams the morning edition of the Washington Post on his desk with one hand–holding his stained cup of black coffee that resembles pond water more than actual coffee with the other.

Laura shakes her head walking into her bosses’ office. Laura, it’s Laura. I’ve worked here for–going on five years and he still can’t get my name right. I know he does it just to annoy me.

“Good morning to you too, Harry.”

“Get your bags packed. I want you on the next plane to Kabul.”

Laura perks up as she loves her job as a journalist and war correspondent, “I heard the 2nd Armored Calvary Regiment moved in yesterday. Do you have any special storyline or do you just want me to follow the troops for a few days--get some fresh stories?"

Never looking up at Laura, Harry mutters, “No Lorie, not this time. Your assignment is to visit a girls’ school in Kabul. The school just reopened and they have over 700 girls enrolled. I’ve set up a meeting for you with the Afghanistan Education Ministry. Do your job–take a few photos–talk to the teachers, administrators, students and their families. You know how it goes–get the story.”

Laura walks closer to her editor’s desk–the smell of old newspapers and the stench of a five-day old cigar thick in the air, “You want me to do what? Harry, are you crazy? You know this is not me! I don’t write stories about schools, education, children–I’m a war correspondent and a good one at that. I don't know anything about the education system in Afghanistan!”

"Learn. Don’t you go to the public library–visit the local schools and one of your favorite hangouts is Mrs. Kennedy’s bookstore. Don’t you go there and read to the kids?”

“Yeah, Harry–but that doesn’t make me an expert on kids and education!”

“Your plane leaves tonight–8pm sharp–it’s a long flight. Go do what you need to do today and shut my door on your way out! And let somebody in the office know when you land.”

Storming back to her desk–Laura tosses a clipboard across the room. I need to calm down–thinking to herself–maybe I can get Harry to send Tasha–she has two girls–she can relate.

She knocks on Harry’s door, opening it before he can get a word out.

"What now!? he yells.

“Harry, you need to give this assignment to Tasha. She’s a much better writer for this kind of story. And really, think about it--who’s going to read a story about young girls going back to school when war is still going on?

“Com’on Harry, please--send me to the frontlines where I can hear the bombs and see the darting flashes of light. Where I can talk to the soldiers–bring back their stories–how their lives are living on foreign soil–homesick for home. Send me to my comfort zone!”

“It’s not up for discussion, Lori,” Harry shouts--pointing to the door.

Now the other people in the office were accustomed to this sorta behavior between Laura and Harry–theirs was a love-hate and respect relationship; but this time–the argument had hit a whole new level.

Tasha walks over to Laura’s desk. “Why are you gathering up your stuff? Please don’t tell me you’re quitting. What has Harry done now?”

“I’m going to Kabul,” Laura answers.

“Afghanistan?”

“And you call yourself a journalist, Tasha! Yes, Afghanistan. I’ll see you in a few days. My plane leaves tonight.”

I am grateful for each of you--more than you will ever know.

And I pray, the stories shared in this space will encourage you--

bring a smile or remembrance, and bless you in some small way.

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All stories copyright and owned by the author, Tathel Miller,