Stretch(ed)

Every Friday, my friend Lisa-Jo the Gypsy Mama  hosts this fun little 5-minute dealy called “5 Minute Fridays.” The challenge is to sit and write, unedited (yikes!) for 5 minutes on a word she provides. I’ve only participated a few measly times (like 2). Because, well, editing is my friend. My really, super good friend that I don’t ever leave out of my writing endeavors. But today, well, I like the word. So I’m gonna’ try it.

Ready. Go…

Stretch

9:45 I sit and write for this unedited 5 minutes of stretching. Yes. Stretch. I like the word because I can say it like it means. sssstrrrreeeeetchhhh. See? Kind of quirky like that, I am.Stretched is what I know I am right in the middle of. I used to want to be called “Stretch” when I played softball in elementary school and was the first-baseman. Someone mentioned that 1st basemen often have to stretch to catch the ball and that they were usually tall. Well, I am not tall. But I can stretch. And I did so love playing first base.

Now I’m stretching in an altogether different way. Stretched from home in Ohio to finding home in a foreign land. Stretched straight off of comfortable and into what I’ve never known, like taffy on the dashboard on a 90 degree day. Sometimes that’s how I feel, too, like taffy all gooey and gross and messy and impossible to chew. But God, well, He’s the one pulling, so I’m good with it. He’s the one intiating the stretch, so I know the stretch will end up transforming me into something even better than the taffy I started out as. So I’m good with the stretch.

And I guess you can call me “stretch” after all.