Everyday life, Faith, Uncategorized


The music is pounding in my headphones, which makes it feel a little like a dream.

I don’t know what the words are but I see their mouths moving and I imagine.

He’s happy to see her and his hands dance wildly, too wildly, in the air while he talks. His shoulders finally lower and his fingers wrap around the warm cup, eyes never leaving hers. It’s a surrender of sorts, and I bet he’s thinking about what it would be like to enjoy silence with her one day.

He’s in love.

You don’t need sound to know that.

Textbooks spill from tables while they stare at pages, trying to become whatever the studying will make them one day. Their mouths don’t move, but the pencils dance while they furrow their brows and wonder if they’re good enough.

If I had a guess, I would say they are.

And that woman. She comes here often and she always looks like she’s running from something. She settles into a chair, lifts her scarf to loosen it, and wipes the coffee spill from her novel. She’s lost in it, and I imagine it’s because it reads better than whatever waits for her on the other side of the glass. Something in her eyes tells me she’s been made a fool of, and she doesn’t save a chair. Not this time, not ever. I can’t tell if she’s lonely or grateful to be alone. Probably both, I guess.

There are a few brave souls outside, no doubt chilled to the bone. One couple stares, each in a different direction, and never says a word.

They don’t have to. There’s space between them, and the bitterness is palpable. I don’t know why they’re angry-I doubt they know. The motion of life has pushed them under, and they don’t remember how to dream anymore.

I can’t help but wonder if they’re just happy to feel something.

It’s not too late, I almost whisper…

He’s reading a book about Truman in a sport coat today. He’s always in the leather chair, always with non-fiction, never a stranger to anyone.  He strikes up conversation with whomever sits beside him, and as he smiles gingerly, anticipating the words,  I wonder if he’s waiting for someone. Maybe every day he sits, wondering if she’ll come and never leave. One more day drifts to “not today” while his fingers fumble with the pages and another car leaves.

I have never been accused of having a lack of imagination, that’s for sure.

I can’t hear it now, but I know there’s laughter. There are hands on shoulders, children tapping the pastry window, and memories recollected. I need the music louder, louder…until everything moves just so.

And when it does, I see exactly what I need to in order to take another step, and I feel the weight of it deeply. It catches my breath, soothes my soul, flushes my cheeks, and I let it move me the way it wants to.

We are, every one of us, just like them.

We wait, we dream, we chase the warmth of the right words, and we sip slowly, wanting to taste every moment, clinging to the way it burns while it slips down our throats.

And in the event that you should wonder, there is a girl here as well. She doesn’t sit in the same seat when she comes because she would rather let it be new. That’s what she prays, at least.

She pretends she has words when she knows there aren’t any, and she watches. She hides here amidst the chaos because it makes her feel less lonely. Her keyboard is her confidante and her tears taste the cup she has been drinking for hours.

Is it only hours?

It feels like more.

She spends her days watching, writing, waiting…

And more than you will ever know, she is broken.

The soles of stranger’s shoes and the way they tip their heads ignite stories in her, and she remembers the reason she watched in the first place.

Because years ago, more years than she can count, she heard a voice when there was only darkness.

It was, to her, a promise that she would never be fully alone again.

Eyes heavenward, she drank it deep, savored it fully, let it bring her the life-breath she was gasping for.

And even now, she remembers.

And above all else, she chooses to believe it.

“Tell your story, love. And when you do, they will certainly hear theirs…”


{May it be, Lord…}




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  • Reply malloryjones November 8, 2012 at 8:01 pm

    Your words are like poetry. In tears right now. I just want to let my story be heard. I want to tell the word about what He can do. I just don’t know where to start.

    • Reply Tricia November 8, 2012 at 8:12 pm

      Oh Mallory… just where you are. That. Is. Where. You. Start. To the beautiful people He has placed in front of you. To the child looking up at you. Wherever, whoever… just go! Your story is beautiful. I know because He made you. Your story is a part of His story. If only one person reads it {hears it} it is *still* beautiful and you are exactly where {& with who} you are meant to be. Go….. the world is aching to know you!

      • Reply malloryjones November 8, 2012 at 9:00 pm

        Thank you, Tricia. I am so thankful for the love of people like you willing to reach out to a stranger on the internet, a 20-year-old college girl still trying to figure out what my life is going to look like beyond my career. I want to know so desperately what He wants me to do with this story He’s given me because it’s extreme, and it’s complicated, but it’s SO beautiful, and I don’t want to mess it up. But I think sometimes I get so caught up in trying to get it right that I forget that He loves me in all my failures because He knows how hard I’m trying. So yeah, thank you.

  • Reply Krista November 8, 2012 at 8:16 pm

    Oh Ang. It never ceases to amaze me to tell the story He is writing for me. Thanks for this rainy day reminder.

    • Reply Krista November 8, 2012 at 8:21 pm

      Whoops. Meant to say it never ceases to amaze me how your words remind me to tell the story He is writing for me. 🙂

  • Reply Milli November 8, 2012 at 8:23 pm

    I felt as though I was there…beautiful!!!

  • Reply SouthernGalThoughts November 8, 2012 at 9:55 pm

    You brought it all to life right here in this post. I’m hearing my story when I read yours like He promised.

  • Reply Casey November 8, 2012 at 10:07 pm

    that was beautiful. I love to sit and watch people and imagine what their story is. Then I always wonder what those same people think my story is. Beautifully written. Praying for your flights 😉

  • Reply Sonika Raj November 9, 2012 at 3:27 am

    This is just beautiful, Angie. Bravo. So glad you’re sharing.

  • Reply Melody November 9, 2012 at 9:24 am

    Simply beautiful.

  • Reply Aja November 9, 2012 at 10:46 am

    Thank you for this, for the reminder just to tell the story He is writing for my life. I needed this today.

    And, I’m a huge people watcher too, often imagining lives in my head just like this.:)

  • Reply Amy Wise November 9, 2012 at 11:08 am

    Angie, more often than not, I find myself crying into my keyboard when I read your blog. My husband would tell you that it is because I cry at almost everything, but I think more than that, my heart feels a connection with your heart for the babies we have lost and the ones we snuggle at night. I totally relate to your stories of feeling like the girl who is “strange” as I am also that girl. I understand your need to write and fear that maybe you aren’t worthy enough to be the one who shares the stories that change lives. I just needed to tell you that your story as a mom, a wife, a daughter, a friend, a neighbor, and a child of God all resonate with me. You are doing exactly what God needs you to be doing. Keep sharing your stories of those around you because those stories and scriptures are changing hearts every day. Thank you for listening to the prompting of the Lord to share!

  • Reply AshleyB November 9, 2012 at 1:14 pm

    This —–> “It’s not too late, I almost whisper…” You’ve whispered it loudly. Thank you.

  • Reply Regina Sentell November 9, 2012 at 1:35 pm

    @Techigigi: @angiesmith19 you are so gifted. When I read your words, I imagine, learn, think, pray, and marvel at the beauty of your poetic skills. Thanks for reaching out to a broken world with your gift and this broken but graciously mended woman.

  • Reply Jessica November 9, 2012 at 2:24 pm

    Love this.

  • Reply Jennifer Ross November 9, 2012 at 2:29 pm

    Chills and tears…… connecting to your words…. to your heart.


  • Reply Jennifer Ross November 9, 2012 at 2:37 pm

    Chills and tears…. connecting to your words…. to your heart.


    • Reply Jennifer Ross November 9, 2012 at 2:45 pm

      oops….. I didn’t mean to comment twice…. SORRY 🙂

  • Reply Sarah Bowers November 9, 2012 at 10:04 pm

    Angie – your words are always such a sweet gift….this one opened at just the right time. Thank you for sharing your story and giving others the courage to do the same.

  • Reply JD November 10, 2012 at 6:57 pm

    Oh Angie…. precious Angie…. No words… just love.

  • Reply Sarah November 12, 2012 at 5:17 pm

    🙂 Just wrote a post about music and how we don’t have to be lonely, then read this.
    PS. Can you add a “Subscribe by E-mail” to your blog, please?

    • Reply Lis November 29, 2012 at 4:41 pm

      It’s down at the bottom! 🙂

  • Reply MaddieAddy November 12, 2012 at 10:05 pm

    Tears and triumph…thank you, Angie.

  • Reply Wick Anderson November 13, 2012 at 6:21 am

    Awesome creativity flowing here. It reminds me of my hobby of making up stories of the people we drive past (or pass us) on the highway, and narrating it for my wife/kids who are occasionally entertained. Sometimes people have long, elaborate adventures that bring them to I-72……:)

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