Once upon a time, there was a child who was a study in opposites. Nondescript, but unique. Ordinary, but extraordinarily awkward. Invisible, but sporting flourescent colors that were undesired and unwelcome.
A deep longing for comfortable anonymity was coupled with an equally deep longing to be affirmed and seen. She blended in, yet stood out as different. She was like a neon sign with a flimsy sheet over it that did not dim it's strange and unwanted light.
She was afraid of everything. She was loved but consistently insecure within and without. And this insecurity and fear made her an easy target for the kids who rose above others by using them as steps that they gleefully trampled all over and ridiculed.
She was naturally studious and enjoyed learning. She did well in school, and at least had that sense of accomplishment to take pride in. But socially she was the misfit of misfits.
In some ways, she was a little adult. Extremely serious-minded and always thinking deeply. She could not fit in; there was no mold to fit her.
So, early on, she learned the joy of reading and entering into the stories she read. She could be anyone and do anything within a good story. The library was her friend. Books were treasures. She always had books to read.
She had a huge imagination and loved creating stories with weird characters who faced extreme challenges, but because she lacked maturity, they tended to get lost before they could move forward to save the day.
She even wrote poetry in her childish handwriting. It was horrible (horrible!) poetry:
My clock stands on the mantel, so very brave and sure, with a little ding dong sound for which there is no cure. If you wind it at the right time, as you surely should, but I love it most of all because it's made of wood.
Yep, I actually remember that one word for word for some reason. Funny the things that stick in your head from childhood. :))
Yes. A love of writing was born within a love of reading.
And that love of reading? It was literally love at first sight; it started when she learned to read and just kept growing.
Her love of writing started small but didn't stay that way. She kept those little girl diaries with a lock and a key and she filled the pages with nonsensical sentences about what was important in her childhood days when life was about playmates and living out imaginary tales. When she got a little older she dreamed of being a famous singing star, and she even tried to write a few songs, which mirrored the poetry as horrible (horrible!). The little diaries became larger ones (what we call journals today), and the writing became deeper, longer, and more serious.
In high school, her girlfriends learned that she had a gift for expressing how those she cared about were feeling. Teenage girls on the brink of womanhood lived out a lot of drama. When girlfriends faced a new struggle or angst, she would write about how they felt. It seemed to be helpful. She was gifted at empathizing and expressing feelings from experiences she'd never experienced first hand.
Books were childhood heroes, teenage heroes, and in a way, adult heroes. They rescued her from herself when she got lost in them. Books allowed freedom when she didn't feel free of what she struggled with. Books brought delight and enjoyment when she was lonely and sad. With growth and adulthood, books became, and remain, a favorite way to relax and spend downtime. She's always reading a book, and now having one always available is even easier with the technology of Kindle. :)
I've most always been the girl with the books.
Writing ebbed and flowed over the years, but was always there for her; an outlet, a form of therapy, and a way to see glimpses of the deep, murky, and broken interior. The first step in a healing journey is identifying what's broken.
Writing became more and more of a passion. That passion was a deep desire to allow words to flow out from heart to mind to fingertips flying on a keyboard when the words would begin circling inside needing release. She started sharing her writing with others bit by bit. A ministry tool was born when others helped her see that what she did was a gift that could be helpful.
And then, in God's perfect timing, a dream was born... a dream she didn't know she had. God called the girl with the books to write a book.
And she did.
Comments