Back when I was the Poem Lady

Here's a story that might make some of my readers think I'm delusional.  Especially my atheist friends, because I have learned online the way non-believers feel about anybody who believes in a god, or "hears from God".  I've always been very careful NOT to say things like "God gave me this poem (or song)".  I'm human, and I don't want to unwittingly write something God didn't say, then tell folks He helped me write it.  While I do believe He gave me some of my better songs and poems, I never want anyone to get a wrong impression.  So here's my story:

All through the 1970's and '80's, and sometimes in the 90's, I wrote a few songs and lots of poems.  Because I wrote so many poems at the time, I got fairly good at making rhymes about almost anything.  I can honestly say that 90% of my writings are mediocre or worse, but I just consider those "practice" and keep them to myself.  All this writing, though, came into being because of Norman Vincent Peale.  He was famous for his positive thinking books and messages.  I would read pamphlets he sent out, and I remember reading one of his books as far back as junior high:  The Power of Positive Thinking for Young People.  I can't say it helped me much... I remained a wallflower.

One year I got a desk calendar from the Peale organization that had this portion of a Bible verse on it:  "Stir up the gift of God which is in you...".  That's from 2 Timothy 1:6.  Did you ever have words that practically jumped off the page and felt as though they were meant for you?  That's how I felt about those words.  However, I didn't think I was very gifted at any particular thing, so it troubled me somewhat:  if the message was for me, what was I supposed to be stirring?  I milked cows twice a day back then, and it seems like the barn was where I did my best pondering on the verse.  I even had a few conversations with myself and God.  What could I possibly have that anyone could derive any good from?  I'm a fairly decent cook, but I had no desire to open a restaurant.  I've always been home-bound because I've never had a driver's license, so even if I figured this out, I'd have no way of sharing whatever it was.  For days, I'd go to the barn, milk the cows, and wonder if I was crazy, or if there was a special message.  Over and over I'd say to myself, "What gift do I have, and how can I stir it up?"

Finally one morning I said (to myself and God, and maybe the cow as well) "I write poems sometimes.  I wonder if any good could come out of that skill."

I made myself sit down and write poems often, and I got a little better at it.  At church I would take notes on a sermon, then turn the sermon topic into a poem and send it to whatever preacher had given the sermon.  Before long, individuals would come to me and ask me to write a poem for them for some particular occasion:  a grandchild's graduation; an anniversary party; a goodbye get-together for a couple from church who were moving away.  I told people, "I might be able to do it.  I'll try my best, but I won't promise anything."  As far as I know, I never failed to come up with what they asked for, and it surprised me more than anyone else when I succeeded.  I made sure to tell them that they needed to give me a lot of facts about the person, the more facts the better.  Dates were good, because many numbers rhyme with lots of other words, and I need rhymes.  Place names were also helpful.  The more facts they could give me, the better my chances were of making it work, although I warned them I probably wouldn't use every detail, so if there was something they really wanted in the finished work, they'd need to let me know.  I had great fun at it and got some cute business cards that said "The Poem Lady".  

Then a time came when I no longer had transportation to church, and slowly but surely, my motivation disappeared.  My poem-writing had a rebirth around the year 2000, when I made a lot of friends in an AOL Christian Chat room.  I'd write a poem now and then about situations in the chat room, or about the Bible stories I'd read that day.  My Internet friends, some of whom I'd met in person at this point, begged me to do a book of my poems.  Eventually I searched on line for publishers who would publish a short book of my poems; I found one that was affordable.  I gathered my favorites together, proofread them many, many times (I still missed one or two mistakes) and sent it in.  I ordered far more books than I thought I'd need, because the more I bought, the cheaper each book was.  

Within a year I'd sold enough books to pay me for my cost of publishing the book, and had a mountain of them left.  I retired shortly after that and stuck two boxes of the books in the garage around 2008.  And then I forgot about them.  Out of sight, out of mind.  

I was moving stuff around in the garage a couple of years ago and saw those two boxes of books.  "Cliff," I said, "I don't see any sense in keeping all these around.  I don't go anywhere to give them away or anything.  What do you think?"  He said it was up to me.  I was goin to toss them all, but at the last minute I decided to keep a few.  I grabbed a small box from the trash, put the keepers in it, and bid the rest of them goodbye; I carried the ones I'd saved in the house and put them in a closet.  

Boy, this is turning into a long story, isn't it?  

Fast-forward to recent months:  I began attending two local churches, as I've explained here before.  Our town is a small one, but I honestly know very few local people because of my non-driving status.  When I went to the Methodist Church, I sat in the next-to-the-back pew.  An elderly lady, Pat, sat behind me each Sunday.  Finally one Sunday I stepped out of my comfort zone and started a conversation with her.  From then on we chatted every week before services.  Then one Sunday she wasn't there.  The next week she was absent again, so I asked about her, and was told she was having terrible back pain.  

I hardly ever send cards and letters these days, but I wanted my new friend to know I missed her.  I wrote her a note; and for some reason, those poem books came to mind.  I had some 5 by 7 manilla envelopes from the old days when I was sending my books by mail to folks who wanted them.  I then recalled Pat telling me one Sunday that a lady in town, Alberta, told her how I used to write poems and songs.  She wanted Pat to ask me if I'd mind sending her the words to the song I wrote about our town, Wellington.  So before I took Pat's book to the mailbox, I printed off those words, looked up Alberta's address, and mailed her the words.  

And now there's a chain reaction.  Every Sunday, someone else wants one of those books.  They're free, and I'm happy to share them.  But there is a limited supply. 

And now I'm wondering:  Am I supposed to start stirring up the gift again?  Inquiring minds want to know.