Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Write About A Story Your Parents Told You When You Were Growing Up

~the following is part of “Prompted Prose,” a series of posts from the prompts I’m working with during my Spring 2016 online writing course

PREFACE: Since all experiences in life come through our own personal filters, so it is when we hear stories, as well. Every tale we’re told comes through this same filtration, as we take in the details of our choosing. Mom, I hope you don’t mind me sharing this story of yours so publicly, and I hope I’ve at least conveyed the gist of such a transcendent, personal experience. It’s interesting for me to consider that perhaps this is my version, not my mom’s story at all, as it’s the one I’ve created over the years, based on what I remember of her telling.

Childhood with my mother was sweet like the juice she’d squeeze, fresh from the trees, in the orange grove where we lived. She was beautiful in her two long braids, tied with leather cord and turquoise, looking at least ten years younger than her age. Perpetually positive, she’d crank John Denver while doing the dishes, then swoop over to hug one of her three children with soapy hands. I never doubted my mother loved me, and it seemed as though my siblings and I were, absolutely, one of the best things in her life.

But the story goes that it wasn’t always that way. It was hard in the early years, with kids close in age, and each of us in some form of diapers. Dad was working ranching hours- gone early, home late. When he was with us, he wasn’t always present. Unhappy and struggling, Mom thought she was sick, and went to an MD for diagnosis. He gave her a clean bill of health, but saw pain in her soul. His suggested remedy, a book by Billy Graham, “How to Be Born Again.”

For a series of days, Mom set up childcare, while she parked our station wagon in a quiet, shady spot behind the citrus packinghouse. She read the book in detail, finally coming to Graham’s instructions on how to ask Jesus into her life.

Over the years, she would recount to us her supernatural experience, there in the car that day. How she made her request, and the undeniable, loving presence that responded. The voice from within that she vividly heard: Go home and love your children to the best of your ability. Her perspective was completely altered, returning home to us, seeing nothing but absolute perfection.

In a bubble of deep love, she joyfully floated. For days, weeks…years to come.

 

courtesy of Tom Hilton
courtesy of Tom Hilton
Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Write About An Unsolved Mystery From Your Own Life

courtesy of Bilal Kamoon
courtesy of Bilal Kamoon

~the following is part of “Prompted Prose,” a series of posts from the prompts I’m working with during my Spring 2016 online writing course

I went for my first, routine gynecological exam at age 18. Dr. M was soft-spoken, with gentle hands. He explained everything he was going to do before he did it. But when he felt something on my ovary that he could not explain, he ordered an ultrasound right away. Within days, I was scheduled for surgery to remove what had been determined as a dermoid cyst on my left ovary.

Dermoids are bizarre. Beginning from a single cell, which holds within it, full potential, these morphed formations may often contain hair, teeth, skin, or pieces of bone. Cells busily attempt to fulfill creation, unawares that they are only a confused distortion of anything that will ever become human. These (usually benign) tumors endeavor authentic growth, but are mere conglomerations, misdirected. Their fruitless efforts can often endanger their host. And their cause? No one really knows.

Dr. M patiently took the time to extract the cyst, saving both ovaries. This was a first in experiencing the mystery of my womb. Doctors couldn’t say what caused the cyst, nor could Dr. M guarantee I wouldn’t have another (though he assured me a second dermoid would be quite rare). The only way of dealing with any more misguided cells, should they get too large, was surgery. These determined frauds that feigned reproductive intelligence, posed an ultimate threat to my long-time dream of motherhood.

During the years that followed, I continued to quietly long for a family. I wanted to clasp a plump, soft-haired baby to my hip like a koala bear. Sometimes I would dream of a little blond boy. I would be holding him, swaying to music, our hearts beating, chest to chest. I did not know if he was truly my destiny, or just a dreamy hope.

Then, another dermoid cyst formed, this time on my right ovary. Big, heavy, and full of foolish confusion, the cyst’s weight was causing torsion at the fallopian tube. Emergency surgery ensued, and I lost the entire ovary.

Grappling with the loss of a precious organ, I grieved, bewildered why another cyst had manifested. I didn’t want to blame myself, but because I believed that my body was a reflection of my deepest thoughts and beliefs, I couldn’t help but think that I must be doing something wrong. It seemed as though my uterus revealed some fundamental flaw in me, one that could possibly hinder ever having my dream of motherhood realized.

Why was my body creating these masses of futile fulfillment?

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

Write About…Your Own Topic

~the following is part of “Prompted Prose,” a series of posts from the prompts I’m working with during my Spring 2016 online writing course

 

Instead of responding to today’s prompt topic, I chose to work on a portion of something that I hope to incorporate into a longer piece, and it may come into one of the 1000 word assignments.

 

Matthew 7:8 “For every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.”

I’m seeking. I’m knocking. I’m trying to remember the exact verbiage the camp counselor gave us, when he encouraged us to step out into this night, be alone with ourselves and God, and invite Jesus Christ into our hearts.

He made it sound so good. So simple. That all we had to do was ask, and we’d be privy to the bridge. A direct line of communication to God, and the essence of unconditional love filling our hearts. Jesus was waiting, he said. Available in every moment, but we had to ask.

As I walk in the open field, I can see the white of my Keds in the moonlight. I look up to see millions of stars, a splay of crystals on black velvet. Is He there? Tall mountain pines stand sentry at the edges, housing a few other seekers, whose shadows I see moving slowly about immense trunks. They, too, are finding their place, looking for the spot where they can sit, make their request, touch God.

I stop wandering and wait. Sit down where I am and listen. There is the sound of crickets in the blades. A cabin door shuts in the distance. I search my heart, this doorway he said, was the way in which I could be received, accepted, reborn. I lace my fingers together, feel the wrinkles of my knuckles. Unlace my fingers and trace the knotted string of the friendship bracelet around my wrist. I try to clear my mind of all thought. I ask again, listen, wait. But there is nothing.

I thought I’d hear a voice. Or maybe get some kind of sensation. Butterflies in my stomach, or a presence, very clear, inside my chest. I only smell pinecones on the summer breeze that floats across the lawn. See the outline of tree branches bounce with the moving air.

When I go back to the group tomorrow I will accept the invitation. Raise my hand and step forward from my metal, folding chair. Yes, I have asked Jesus into my life, and I will be his follower. I will make this claim, believing. Hoping. Never wanting to ask if I was the only one who didn’t feel Him. Unable to face the fear that, perhaps, there is something intrinsically wrong with me. Too afraid to question why God didn’t come, even when I asked.

 

courtesy of Jason Trbovich
courtesy of Jason Trbovich