Time for Writing

During a tutoring session with a high-schooler this afternoon, I watched her write descriptively about a long-remembered place near and dear to her heart. As she described each room, she’d wander off momentarily revisiting memories of Christmas tree decorating with her grandmother, fishing with her grandfather, and game nights with cousins. I found myself getting lost in the reverie along with her, watching her choose the perfect words to describe the place in her childhood where she recalled being most deeply and truly happy.

In those moments, I envied her a little bit. Not just because I miss my own childhood memories and family reunions, but because she had both the opportunity and the directive to creatively write.

I miss writing.

I’m a language arts and English teacher, so I have plenty of time to talk about writing, to read about writing, to teach kids how to write well. I guess didn’t realize how much my heart longs for moments spent simply weaving words together in a creative form.

It’s been nine years since I wrote my first book, eight years since the second. Since that time, life has been profoundly busy with college and a transition into teaching. I love that after all those years, I went to college and earned an education degree. I love that I am firmly established in a teaching career I love with all my heart.

But I really miss writing. And I need to figure out a way to make time for it. Somehow.

Long before I wrote my first actual book, I wrote a children’s book manuscript I tucked away and guarded from the public eye. A children’s book needs an illustrator, and I didn’t have one. So I let it sit. And it’s been sitting for twenty-five years.

It might be time to dust it off.

There is a part of me I know will never be complete without a regular practice of creative writing. I tell my students that one of my main goals as a teacher is to instill such a love for writing in their hearts that they can’t not write. If I want my example to be a solid one, which of course I do, I reckon I’d better start practicing what I teach.


Right Now


I happened upon a blog post during a 30-day blogging challenge, and a short rabbit trail led me to Lisa Sonora’s blog/journal prompt “Right Now”. It’s simple, yet has somehow remained illusive over the years I’ve been writing and navigating writer’s block. It’s one of those moments when I feel like somebody opened the curtains and let sunlight stream into my usually dimly-lit room. Normally, I think light is overrated. Today, I like it.

Right now…I am listening to my daughter sing. Her voice rises and falls as she moves about the house, and I close my eyes for long moments just to feel it. Her voice has made me smile heart-deep for over twenty years now, and I could never imagine my life without it. Not long after she left for the dentist’s office this morning, I was startled awake by a dream where she was calling my name. I lay there chiding myself for worrying about her. She’s twenty! I sighed peacefully when she texted a few minutes later that she had safely arrived.

Right now, I am perusing photos of Mama. Aunt Vernell called yesterday and asked if I had a particular photo, and I said I would print it and send it to her. Talking to Aunt Vern is the closest thing to talking to Mama that can happen with her gone now almost ten years. Aunt Vern was the closest to Mama of all the sisters, and so much like her it’s hard to describe. I plan to call my beautiful aunt more often.

Right now, I am grateful for warmed-up leftover biscuits with butter and strawberry preserves. They remind me of my childhood, when Mama made them by hand in her big biscuit bowl. I have a wooden one of my own now, just the perfect size for a batch of dough that makes a dozen. I made homemade flour tortillas for the first time yesterday. I have some improving to do, but I’m optimistic. They made some pretty tasty grilled chicken fajitas for our little supper for three.

Right now I am watching the breeze sway the palm fronds just outside my office window. Muggs and her husband gave us a bird feeder for our anniversary and I’m hoping to put it up this evening in a location where it can be seen through both my office and the kitchen windows. The jays and cardinals have been swooping into the alcove often lately so I put a bowl of seed in the kitchen window sill, but the feeder will be easier for them to see.

Right now I feel grateful for these last few weeks of summer calm before school starts again, and I will be grateful when it does start and I get back into my study routine. The busyness fuels me, keeps me organized, makes me feel alive.

Right now I miss my husband and count the hours until he’s home again.

Little Black Lies


I had dried the last of the dishes and was about to dust my collection of perfume bottles when the doorbell rang.  Belle’s bark cut through what had been a soothing afternoon alone, with only the occasional tink of a dish from the kitchen or Dido’s voice faintly drifting through my open bedroom door to break the silence.  I dodged the large Labrador retriever bolting past me to be first at the door.

Mildly annoyed, I stopped at the living room window to survey the unexpected visitor.  She was slightly taller than me, with thin black hair hanging nearly to her waist.  Most notable was her clothing, which was all black, from knee-high boots to trench coat.  I rolled my eyes, muttered about high school kids and their door-to-door fundraisers, and closed the blinds.

She knocked again, launching Belle into another bark-and-bounce frenzy.  I groaned at her persistence and decided that telling her I wasn’t interested was preferable to continuing to have Dido drowned out by the yelping beast in the doorway.  Grabbing Belle by the collar, I opened the door just wide enough to toss my voice through.

“I’m not interested, thank you.”

Her voice was barely audible just as the door closed.  “Claire?”

“What the–” I heard my own voice and had reopened the door before I realized it was probably not the wisest response, especially given the glimpse I’d gotten of the girl’s heavy black makeup and bizarre expression through the tiny window in the door.  By the time I regained my wits and grabbed the doorknob, she spoke again.

“Claire, it’s me. Niko.  I mean, Nicole,” she stammered.  “Nikki.  It’s me, Nikki.  Please, can I come in?”

I must have stood there in shock longer than I realized.  Belle tugged against my grasp and brought the awareness that she was lunging toward the door.  Uncertain of what to do next, I reined her in and nudged the door open further.  “Nikki?” I swallowed hard. “God, Nikki…what happened to you?”

She looked slightly embarrassed, almost smiling in her discomfiture.  “Well, hello to you, too.”

It was my turn to be embarrassed.  “Geez, I’m sorry.  Hey, sure, come in.” I yanked Belle’s collar backward and snapped my fingers in a “down!” command.  I could see doubt reflected in her huge brown eyes, but she obeyed.  I ushered Nikki into the living room and gestured toward the sofa. She sank into the leather and ran her hand over a nearby throw pillow.  She pulled the pillow inward and hugged it to her chest.  I waited for her to speak.  I certainly didn’t know what to say, especially since the last time we’d spoken it had been anything but pleasant.  I cringed inwardly at the memory.

“I guess you’re wondering why I’m here.”

I assume my expression didn’t change, so she continued.  “I had to talk to you.  To tell you I’m sorry.”

I didn’t like the memories that suddenly began to flood through my head.  I almost felt guilty that her apology had only sent me hurdling back in time to memories I only wanted to forget.  I gulped, trying to manage a response. “Uh…wow. I…”

“I know it’s been a long time.  What? Six years?  But anyway, I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry…you know, for lying to you.”

“Which time?” The bitter retort was out before I could stop it.  Her expression reflected injury.

“I guess I had that coming.”

I sighed and bit my lip.  “Sorry.  I guess even after all this time, it still hurts.”

“I know it must, and that is why I came.  I hope you’ll forgive me.  Things are different now, Claire.”  She flashed a grin in my direction.  “I know by the looks of me, you’re probably thinking I’ve gone completely nuts, but the
way I dress doesn’t show how I’ve changed for the better.  Really.  It’s truth all the way with me now.  I learned my lesson, believe me.”

I managed a smile.  “I’m glad, Nikki, truly.  Those were some really rough times, and I can’t imagine going through that again.”

She shook her head, the ring in her eyebrow glinting in the light.  “Nope, that’s the old me.  This is the new me.  The clothes will change next, but I have to get a job and get a paycheck first, right?”  The odd familiarity of her nervous laugh sent a chill down my back.  “I’m drug-free and looking forward to getting everything in my life back on track.”

“I didn’t know you’d gotten into drugs.”

“Oh, well, a little.  But not for a long time now.  Seriously.”

I stared blankly across the room.  The silence took on an awkwardness that forced her to continue.  “Hey, I don’t s’pose I could crash here for a couple of days…just so I can look for a job and a permanent place to live…?”

“Nikki, I don’t think that’s a good idea.  If Sam knew you were here, he’d freak.  You know that.”

“I know, I know.  But I’m different now, Claire.  You could make him believe it, couldn’t you?”

“Oh, I probably could.  But I don’t even know if I believe it.  Come on, Nikki.  You know what we went through–”

“Yes, I know!” With obvious effort, she breathed deeply and calmed herself. Her voiced softened.  “I remember what we went through, but like I told you, it’s truth all the way with me now.  No drugs, no lies, I swear.  You have to believe me, Claire.”

Her expression was pleading and I felt my resolve beginning to weaken.  Her smile indicated that she had sensed as much.  “See, you believe me.  I knew you would.” She leapt from the couch and threw her arms around me.  I choked
on the smell of cigarette smoke and something unknown but equally acrid, reminded all too vividly of days gone by when I had felt the urge to bathe after every time I’d been near her. “Hey, it’s okay…really…”  It took concentrated effort not to audibly cough.

“I promise you, Claire, I will never lie to you again.  Honest.”

I heard a scuffling sound, and Belle was at the door before I could even turn in that general direction.  This time she wasn’t barking.  Her low growl seemed to eerily match the tuft of hair standing up on her back.  Then came a heavy banging on the door, sending Belle into a fit of frantic barking and leaping at the door.

A raspy voice bellowed from the front porch.  “Niko, I know you’re in there! Get out here now!  If you don’t, you’re gonna pay!  And so will whoever lives here!”

I turned to find her cowering in the corner of the sofa.  “Who is that, Nikki, and why is he here?” She sat there shaking her head, as though unable to voice a response.  I fought to maintain my composure. “You need to tell me what is going on.  Now would be the time to do that.”

“I…I don’t know.  I mean, he…um…he’s lying!  He’s lying, Claire, don’t believe him!”  She seemed desperate.

“Why is he here, Nikki?” I repeated.

“I don’t know, some guy…who…followed me from…from the bus, or something.” Her search for words was as visible as that of a hungry urchin scrounging for bits of food.  I found myself feeling sorry for her.

The porch voice bellowed again.  “Don’t push me, Niko, I mean it!”

“He’s calling you Niko.  You used that name for yourself when you arrived. Who is that man?”

“I swear I don’t know.  I’ve never seen him before, you have to believe me. I told you I only tell the truth now.  Make him go away, Claire, please?”

There was a familiarity to the way she implored with sad eyes and pouting lips.  The feeling in my stomach was a mix of nausea, anger, and fear. Still, I wondered if I was being unfair to her now, allowing such unpleasant memories to haunt my mind while she was in such an apparently difficult predicament with the stranger at the door.

The voice came again, strangely calmer but no less resolute.  “Niko, the dealers won’t be so kind.  You know that.  They’re garbage heads and they’ll bust yours if you don’t pay up.  If you don’t get out here now, I won’t be able to keep them from getting to you.”  Nikki didn’t move.  The voice was angry but controlled.  “You’ve been running for two days and they are hot on your trail.  You said you could get food and money from this woman, so I assume you know her.  Now, are you ready to go, or are you prepared to put her in danger, too?”

I turned to Nikki, expecting to find her tearful and terrified.  Her expression instead was one of annoyance.  Stiffly, she rose from the sofa and strode toward the door.  “I’m out.  You always were a sucker, so I figured it couldn’t hurt to try.  I didn’t count on Frank showing up and blowing my cover.  Have a nice, perfect, Pollyanna life, Claire.”  She slammed the door shut behind her, rattling the window and sending a perfume bottle toppling to the floor.

I lost track of how long I stood there trembling after Belle had stopped barking.  I reached down and picked up the faintly scented bottle.  The name on the label caught my eye.  Sweet Honesty.  I dropped it into the wastebasket and headed for the shower.



It’s starting to sink in how much of my life is spent striving.

Striving to stay healthy, not offend anyone, be everything to everybody possible, be available, be open, be real, be safe, be me. I’m not sure I remember what it feels like to truly rest.

I’ve been sticking close to home a lot more lately–not hiding in a shell, but curled up in a chrysalis. Wait. Maybe chrysalis isn’t a good analogy, since that implies I will eventually open up into something new. I’m not sure I’m supposed to be–or that I want to be–something new. I want to be something real. I want to be who I already am.

For me, resting doesn’t mean shutting out the world. It means paying attention to what heals me, calms me, makes me feel fully alive in this life God created for me. This grateful, beautiful life.

I’m working on another book, and while I find myself scrambling for motivation to really get words flowing I find the process as a whole getting easier. I think it took getting that first book out there for me to believe I actually have something to say that someone else might want to read. I can be a little slow to believe in myself.

And so while I am resting, I am also working hard here in my little office overlooking the yard and palm trees and dock and lake with sandhill cranes loping and cardinals flitting and the wind chimes singing me a breezy Florida winter song. Writing is calming for me, and this is the perfect place for it.

I spend a lot of time alone, but I am never lonely. I’ve grown deeply introspective lately, but it has me examining some things that merit close attention. I find it drawing me closer to God in ways I couldn’t have imagined. With the Holy Spirit as my ever-present companion I could never be truly alone.

These are days of grief and fear, but also of gratitude and joy. I struggle to word how those things can all be present at once, but as I move the days and years of my life I am realizing more and more just how complex the living of this life can be–and how difficult to word.

But I go on trying to word it, this story of mine that only I can tell. I keep showing up, hoping somehow it will be used to give someone hope.

If I have nothing else to offer, there’s always hope.



Not all who wander are lost. Not all who wonder are lost. Do all who are lost wonder?

I feel lost lately. Not sure where I fit. If I fit. Sometimes even wondering when or if my time will come, or if that time has come and gone. And if it is to come again, where will I be? Is there a time in life when we are freed to use our giftings, and then once that time is over…are we obsolete? I wonder sometimes if I am just plain washed up.

I know what I’m good at. I don’t talk about it a lot because I don’t want to be “that person”. But I know, deep down, what I am wired to do. I know what jazzes me. I know what I’ve done wildly well in the past. I know how God has used the unique (maybe even a little bit crazy) way He knit me together to reach out and shed light into other lives.

I am a wife, a mother, a grandmother, a friend. I am a homemaker, writer, speaker, editor, creator, maker, artist, singer, musician, composer, mentor, teacher, nurturer, connector, encourager. I keep hearing that those things are of value. Are they?

I’m just not sure what to do with those things right now. If I lament that I wish I could do more, be used more in what I can do, I fear being written off as a complainer. If I stay silent, I hurt alone. Either way, as resilient as I try to remain, this hurts.

In the absence of being needed so much outwardly, I am drawn toward home. This is not unusual for me, homebody that I am. I am happiest here. I feel drawn inward, deeply introspective and almost private. At least for now. But I don’t believe it is meant to turn my thoughts inward toward myself. I believe it is to turn my thoughts more intently on Him and the message–messages–He wants me to get out in books.

In short, I am feeling called to a season of words. Specifically, words sprawled into books. What He does with them is up to Him. Showing up to the page is up to me.

And so I lose myself to find the messages. Wherever they are.

I wander and I wonder and I am lost but not lonely. These are days to find my rest in Him.

When your voice seems pale in comparison


They are ever so lovely, those voices crooning from behind microphones, bellowing from bodies wrapped in spandex and sequins and sometimes very little at all. Their words are music and their presence seems to grip the hearts of hearers with an ease that makes you cringe when you think of how small your voice sounds in your own ears, how unappealing your message feels even deep within your own heart.

I’ve felt that way, too.

I’ve watched them dance and sing and speak and win fans in a five-minute performance when most days for me it feels like climbing a mile-high mountain getting one blog post written or sharing my own story or facing a tiny crowd to sing a borrowed song.

Sometimes I feel like an imposter. I can’t command an audience like that, so what’s the point?

Then there are days like yesterday when a woman I hadn’t seen in months walks up to me and places her hand on my shoulder and says, “I read your blog. I follow your life through your words, and I want you to know that I read your story and it’s like I know you, feel your heart, understand your story. When you write, I can see who you really are and it makes me want to share who I am, too.”

And suddenly there’s a ray of hope that breaks through the cloud of comparison.

Because really, I wouldn’t want to dress like those performers or dance the way they do. That isn’t me. That may be their stories, but it isn’t mine. And maybe it isn’t their story at all—maybe in reality it is a façade to cover what they’d rather the watching world not see.

I don’t want a façade. I want the world to see the real me.

And maybe that is what this whole thing is really about: me realizing that I don’t need to worry about how fancy or strikingly-clad or brightly lit my story is. Because it is simply mine.

And how amazing is it that I have the opportunity every single day to put myself out there, to show the real me without glitz or fanfare, to open myself up to everyday people who couldn’t relate to those Hollywood stars if they tried and who need a much more real and believable hand to hold on this journey.

I’m no prize-winning blue rose, but a tiny wildflower can bloom beautiful in a field of dry weeds.

Maybe the fact that I’m no celebrity makes me much more valuable to the millions out there who are anything but famous. People just like me. Maybe this little star doesn’t have to be blindingly brilliant to twinkle a smile in a hurting heart.

Perhaps in the end, it is the ordinary story that becomes extraordinary in its telling.

I’m willing to shine. Are you?

~  *  ~



A Write Where It Hurts column post

Holding tight to Christmas light


The tree’s still up in our living room. Her lights shone all through December, and only got unplugged so we could camp out over New Year’s Eve, but I’ve plugged them back in for a day or two more. I don’t want the lights to dim.

In fact, since we’ll most likely pull down the tree and put away the decorations this weekend, I’m considering stringing white “happy lights” (as my sweet Ames calls them) across the crown molding for year-round, stretching twinkles across these rooms so the glimmer never has to go out.

It isn’t like I don’t know the light of Christ lives in our hearts and not on string stuck in a socket. I carry His light with me always, smiling it outward to all I meet. I can’t imagine not glowing with His grace and the love that makes all things new.

But these lights dancing across a wire above our heads remind us to stay lit.

And being lit from the candle celebrating the first breath of the Bread of Life, well, that’s a spark that can keep us aflame for a very long time.

And who doesn’t want to live life well-lit?

I’m beginning to see evidence that I am a walking paradox, this girl who loves darkness and rain and dimly-lit rooms cozied up by candles and blankets and books and journals and pens. But when it comes down to it, it’s light that I want to pour into the lives of others, twinkling out from the heart of this grateful creative with a green plaid blankie and a marshmallow mustache.

Most of the time I would tell you that light is overrated. But not His. His brings beauty and joy and a hope nothing else on this earth can produce. His is the light I want to share. So I’ll string my happy lights and wish all a Happy New Year for the second day in a row, because His kind of happy is what we long for every day, whether we recognize that longing or not.

In 2014 I plan to stay lit.


A Beautiful Life

ABLbookcoverFREE for Kindle this weekend

It’s a lot like giving birth, this book releasing thing, like holding a newborn out to the waiting world and whispering, “Please love it?” Makes me a little queasy, if I’m completely honest, and I admit moments of wondering what in the world I was thinking taking this on. But I did, and here it is, and I really do hope you love it.

I’ve been writing my whole life, and it’s no secret that I have a particular passion for using words to build into people–especially other women–and offer them courage and hope. I’ve had bits and pieces of books written and stored for a long time, but it wasn’t until Brian Williams’ book writing class that the motivation and accountability teamed up with my love for writing and resulted in a finished work.

My first book. As I consider how many women have received it since it went live yesterday, the thought of that many people holding a me-shaped piece of hope is both terrifying and exhilarating at once. Deep down I am awed by God’s grace that I get to be a part of something this lovely, this inviting of others to remember what it was like to dream.

I won a writing contest in fifth grade, and from the moment I read my story aloud and saw the wonder on my classmates’ faces, I was hooked. With a million butterflies dancing around in my tummy, I was overcome by an excitement I couldn’t word. I had a feeling that was just the beginning, and I was right. There is no feeling quite like having someone walk up to me and say, “I read your book, and I love it! Thank you for being real on the page and putting it out here for all of us.” That happened this morning, and I’m pretty sure it will never get old.

So here’s my baby, and I offer it out to you, my sweet friend. Because it’s you I pictured sitting across the table from me as I wrote. You, with your questions and your exhaustion and your wondering if you can keep going one more single minute. You can, and I’m going to be here cheering you on. You aren’t alone, and don’t you forget it. We’re in this together, and I can’t wait to meet you on the page.

My heart to yours, I wish you an ever-increasingly beautiful life.

Slowing Down {Days 1-3}


My friend Retta encouraged me to join her in the Jeff Goins “Slow Down Challenge”. I gladly accepted.

I’m a couple of days behind, so I’ll combine Days 1-3 here.

Day 1 was Noticing.

One thing I noticed was a hawk just outside my office window, feet firmly pinning a small critter of unknown description to the ground beneath him. I could see movement but couldn’t see what he’d caught. I dashed for my camera, then had it poised to snap the picture through the window when he clutched his prize and took flight, too quickly for me to see what he was holding OR capture a picture. I guess some things just have to be savored in the moment and recalled in words rather than photos. We can’t always freeze the image, but we can still give it permanence in print.

Another notice was the sound of the air conditioner coming to life, blowing cool air against my neck and setting my baby hairs to dancing. I don’t often think about how grateful I am for air conditioning, but here in Florida life would be very different without it.

Since Day 1 would have been Monday and that happened to be the day I spent some leisurely time with my beautiful friend Retta, I want to mention her as one of my focused notices. There is something unique about my friendship with her that I keep trying to word, keep trying to even understand in my own mind, and every time I try to pin it down with words I come up short. I tried again on Monday and failed again. I am grateful that she doesn’t think I’m weird for my failures. No, Retta is one of the most patient and gentle souls I have ever known. Friends now for ten years, we only hugged for the first time in person a bit over two weeks ago. There is something almost ethereal about now having her living close by. I almost feel like I’m afraid to touch the trail of pixie dust, fearful it might suddenly blow away and leave nothing behind. But she and I have talked about walking together in a better direction–walking in light and hope instead of waiting for the other shoe to drop. Too many days have been wasted in both of our lives to waste even one more waiting for something awful to rob us of the beauty of this life. And if we get to share it, I want to celebrate that for the gift it is.

Day 2 was Savoring.

“Because sometimes our biggest frustrations turn into our most beautiful moments.”

In response to this challenge I sit back in my chair and listen. I don’t watch much TV in general, and to be honest my usual response to hearing the TV playing is mild annoyance at the intrusion into my hearing space. This time, though, I listen with my heart. It’s a football game tonight, and the truth is football games on TV have historically been one of my favorite things in the world. Daddy and I used to watch it together, and I’ve watched with my family all through these years of our life together, these years of my husband and me raising four boys and a daughter, all of whom totally dig football. These thoughts make me smile soul-deep and I savor the moment to the sound of NFL theme music and all the memories that flood in.

Day 3 is Addressing  the Myth of Multitasking.

First off, I’ve always thought multitasking was a good thing. You know, something the most efficient among us do with pizzazz. I mean, multitasking seems like the only way to survive this life of motherhood and wifing and home management, right? How can it not be a good thing?

In theory I can see how doing too many things at once dilutes the focus on any one of them. I suppose I do understand that each thing I set myself to doing is worth my full focus at the time. Kind of makes me wonder why I didn’t think of that before. Probably because I was doing too many things at once.

I’m pondering the task assignment for today and will work on that tomorrow since it takes a bit of pre-planning. Stay tuned for more on that in the next post.

All these thoughts of slowing down are reminding me once again of Ann Voskamp’s One Thousand Gifts and how gratitude slows time down. I always love reminders of Ann’s beautiful message.

Tonight I will be doing further thinking and soul-searching in regard to things God has been whispering to my heart. Friendship is figuring prominently in my thoughts lately, so it’s likely that will be at the forefront.

“Busyness robs us of the gift right in front of us.” –Jeff Goins

Why we must keep telling our story


“See, healing comes through story.” Our youth pastor, the speaker for the weekend, halted his pacing back and forth across the stage to let his words sink in. “People aren’t moved until they hear the Story. So share your story!”

I thought about that for a long time after he had moved on to other points. The truth of his statement resonated with my spirit like it was born there, and I’ve pondered those things in my heart ever since. Share my story? Which one?

I could open up about childhood abuse, talk about the way I lived for years believing I had caused my father’s death, recall the times I almost died, share the words that were spoken to me that pierced my heart and set the stage for a lifelong fear of rejection. What good would that do?

But then I remember that those things aren’t the end of my story. They aren’t even the middle. They were only the beginning, and much has happened since then. Much that has changed the course of my life and set it toward much clearer skies.

Perhaps the story our youth pastor means for me to tell is what God has done with the life of a girl beset by so many obstacles at such a young age. It isn’t the hell I’ve walked through in shiny white Easter shoes that people need to hear about. It’s the healing that has come because Jesus is very much alive and God is always good.

My story isn’t over. I can tell it from the beginning, and sometimes I do. Sometimes I start in the middle and work up to the present. Wherever I start and stop, God is there. And it can be pretty hard to explain how God was there the day my childhood innocence was ripped away or when my daddy was lowered into the earth and I thought it was my fault.

It’s hard to explain because I don’t fully understand it, either. But I believe with my whole heart that God truly is good, and that He is always for me. He is the author of my story beginning to end, and only He fully knows the reasons behind what has been allowed to befall me. I can remain stuck in that little blue dress with the white lace collar, or I can trade it for something much more fitting for a girl heading for Heaven.

So I tell my story, which is really hundreds of small ones all held together by time, me walking through each one in its moment but never alone. I tell it in pieces as chances come, and always with the focus being a redemption I am hard pressed to word. Always with my eyes on the God who created me and who alone holds the right to allow what He wills.

I can’t make it all make sense, but I can tell it. And I can always, always end it with hope.

. . . . . . . . . .


A Write Where It Hurts column post