Out of the blue, Barbara Day panicked. Challenge topic, “Blue”, began to affront her brainpower reserves. Diving deeper into the ocean depths of blue, she immersed in knowledge from her researches. She benefited from her search. But, sailing on her blank Word page profited her very little. On the Thursday morning, FW Challenge Week topic, “Blue” would have received the maximum entries. Hers not included. She gloomed.
On the previous Sunday, Barbara began to notice for the first time, the dark-blue curtain hanging on the wall at the pulpit platform. Worship meant so much to her in this little country church. “I wonder what ‘blue’ meant to the church. I’ll interview with Pastor after the service, he might know.” Pastor Michael and his wife, Lily, might enlighten Barbara. They might be able to explain something about the work at the tabernacle in the wilderness.
Her Power Bible concordance shed some light. “There it is, ‘ “And all the women that were wise hearted did spin with their hands, they had spun blue, and of purple, and of scarlet, and of fine linen’”. However, resolutions to Barbara’s troublesome blue-ideas remained unsettling. Blue wasn’t central theme. Spiritualizing the “blue, purple, scarlet in the tabernacle” would be best left unsaid.
The promising writer set to work. Google-ling and surfing the internet for blue might help. Encarta offered interesting results. Great finds with blue narrowed down Barbara’s search. “How man is so depraved of true wisdom of GOD because of ungodly choices.” Her busy mind ruled out from her writing about symbolisms of blue for divinity. “Blue is blue. God made sky, blue. What other reasons the Creator of the universe said the seas, the oceans, and sky, blue for? Beats me, I’m content with the blueness of the way they are.” A smile escaped her serene face.
If gaining for knowledge were a portrait, further research on blue coloured the painting in hues of hope. The troublesome blues led her to some liberal and universal conservative views in politics. Links coded in blue, led her to blue flags. United Nations prides its blue flag and symbol.
“Then, so what? Politics beats the fun out of me. I’m confused enough.” She said it aloud. So, that’s out of my realm to write about. How was the author to craft blue into seven –hundred- fifty –word editorial piece that will tell her high respect to her readers?
Henry, Barbara’s photographer husband called, “Hon, come quick!” Just outside their dining room window they pleased themselves with the success at seeing two blue-breasted fairy-wrens. Quickly, an Olympus OM3 zoomed in at the wrens. Henry and the eight other members of the household cheered at the lovely sight. They praised at the chirpers for nesting in the honey-suckle vine close to the dining room window. Happy moments exchanged with words among the family. The blue-breasted wrens had migrated from the south to the mainland. They brought colour about in their rocky and dry terrain.
The friendly visitors bathed at the bird-bath. Barbara delved in thoughts for words to write about blue. “What’s about the ‘blueness’ of the feathers of the pretty fowl creatures.” Henry heard her think. She reasoned, “I’ll leave it to the Master Creator why the fairy-wrens are blue-feathered.” Out goes with the troublesome blue.
Still lost in blue. Tomorrow’s deadline calls for calmness. The determined writer accepted giving up the blues as a weak resolve. “I have to master peace in the midst of din in our full house. The topic “Blue” will have to go for me, I guess. I can’t write. I’m flat out,” Barbara finally said to her husband, who listened sympathetically.
Henry suggested, “Write about an expecting new mother deciding about what color to paint their baby’s room: pink or blue.”
Even so, how will she expound a baby’s blue room into taking on the topic nicely? She must master the level of talents of many FaithWriters. She slinked away turning blue in the face in a pedantic gloom. Babies bring sunshine. Yellow was more like it.
“Mom, I’ve got bumps on my head,” Barbara’s three-year old happy boy prided the umpteenth time. He had been running to her about little accidents since Sunday. Staring past at things into the world of words, hard at thinking, the busy mother-writer searched into her son’s “bumps”. Surveying and checking if the “bumps” were blue, or worse, indigo.
Oh, well, “I can’t topical-ize blue into my writing. I give up.”
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