The Purple Crayon and Harold

In 1955, Crockett Johnson introduced the world to a character named Harold, and we fell in love with the toddler who expressed his imagination through a purple crayon. Harold could wield that crayon and create almost anything. If he could imagine it, he could create it.

As a writer, I have a bit of the Harold Syndrome. My imagination likes to run amuck. I want to write about grace and conversion and the good news of the Gospel. I want the stories to inspire and convict and generate a zeal for the New Evangelization. I can just imagine how the stories might go – and how those stories might stir the hearts of readers.

Unfortunately, reality is rarely good fodder for my pen.

My imagination typically resembles the world of purple crayons rather than the reality of God’s plan. As a writer, I imagine how another’s conversion should go, and I want to write the story into reality. The story is big and fantastic and dripping with grace. All the ups and downs come together for a climactic moment that rivals the best of conversion stories.

The fundamental problem with all of this is that the story is just a story. It exists only in my imagination. And living in the land of purple crayons ultimately leads to frustration and disappointment. It isn’t real.

Real life is messy and difficult. Grace doesn’t usually show up when or how I’d like. As a Catholic writer, I am writing nonfiction. And nonfiction doesn’t consult the writer. Nonfiction is a combination of God’s will and human weakness. It’s usually messy and difficult, and only rarely good for spiritual storytelling.

As much as I would like to be Harold with his magic crayon, I am just a woman with a pen and a prayer. Thankfully, I have a role model in my patron saint.

When I converted, I chose St. Teresa of Avila for my saint. She was a Catholic writer who lived hundreds of years ago, but in reading her books, I saw the Church in a new and beautiful way. It made me want to be Catholic. Eventually, it made me want to be a Catholic writer.

I wanted to stir another person’s soul as she had done for me. I wanted to write words that would cause another to see the Catholic Church as the treasure that she is. I’ve come to realize one thing about St. Teresa of Avila. It wasn’t her pen that converted me. It was her prayer life, both on earth and in heaven.

She didn’t change my world with a purple crayon (or a quill and inkwell); she changed my world through prayer.

My life was messy and difficult and you know what? It still is. I think St. Teresa can relate to all of that. And I think she would say that the messiness of life can be a good thing. Maybe it doesn’t make for a good story, but it certainly drives us to our knees and keeps us there. Prayer is the most important tool in our spiritual arsenal. She may have been a writer, but St. Teresa chose prayer over the pen.

The Catholic pen simply captures what prayer has wrought.

Like my beloved saint, I find the greatest peace when I am on my knees in front of the Blessed Sacrament, not when I am writing. I find my greatest contentment when I am yielding to God’s will, not writing story lines as my imagination would have them go.

And I thank God for my saint, who continues to intercede and guide and to teach me to put down my purple crayon and embrace the greatest tool I have as Catholic Christians. Prayer.

St. Teresa of Avila, pray for us!

The Purple Crayon and Harold

God's Poetry

“So much depends upon a red wheelbarrow, glazed with rainwater, beside the white chickens.” American poet William Carlos Williams wrote the poem. I happen to like it, but my husband just laughs and says, “That’s not a poem; it’s a sentence.”

John is right, of course; it is a sentence. I am right, too; it is definitely poetry. I guess I just like the simplicity. In my mind, I can see the wheelbarrow as it rests against the chicken coop and the rain bathes the wheelbarrow like an agrarian version of blessed holy water.

To me, it is the ideal of poetry, which should contemplate life, human interaction, and the complexities of our existence, like a pale imitation of faith and the spiritual journey.

As a Christian, I am that red wheelbarrow, overused at times, underused at times, and sometimes used for fun and frolic. Many times, I feel like I am overworked by the Master. I want to cry out, “Can’t I just go back over there by the chicken coop and rest a bit? Lord, aren’t you driving me a bit too hard?”

Then, I sometimes feel abandoned. Like the wheelbarrow, I am propped up beside a chicken coop and left to wait and wait, as the rainwater drizzles down and the chickens peck at the ground. The dog days of summer or the harsh cold days of winter stretch out before me, and I long for Jesus to take me for a joyride, letting some small child climb aboard, feet dangling as she throws back her head in laughter and the Master takes us both for a spin around the farm. I am happy to be used in this way. And the opportunities seem all too rare.

That is how it has been for me since my conversion. At times I am at rest – so much time to sit and reflect, time to contemplate God, my faith, and my purpose. But in those moments, I’ve often felt forgotten and even wondered if I would ever be used again for His service.

Other times, like now, I enter seasons in which I feel overworked – rushed about and pushed to the brink of my ability. I look back to the seasons of quiet contemplation, and I remember those days of rest with longing.

When I am most exhausted by seasons of active labor or feel forgotten in seasons of quiet contemplation, I am surprised and delighted when the Master decides that work and rest can wait. I can almost see the Master as He gently calls to me and says let’s do something else for awhile. Let’s have a little fun. I smile as He lifts a small child up and places her in my care, and we go for a joyride.

I hear the child’s laughter, and I am glad that so much depends upon a red wheelbarrow. So much depends on letting God use me in the way and in the timing of His great design. And that is the poetry of belonging to Him and submitting to His perfect will. That is the way my little life is transformed into God’s poetry.

God's Poetry