Charm is deceitful, and beauty is vain, but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised. Proverbs 30:30
Story telling has always been a part of me. It was a safe refuge for me as a child when I was anything but safe. Story telling allowed me to have everything in my control and to be painted with happy ever after’s. In high school story telling gave way to writing, to provide a concrete base where my dreams could reside. In my search for a haven I tried everything religion had to offer, that alcohol could numb, and promiscuity could provide. In all my searches I was a failure. I learned what not to do, who not to be and where not to go. At night I would lie in bed and count my good deeds as well as my bad. The good must outweigh the bad or I was in for a horrible night. My writing was dark and reflected my pain. I leaned to hide my true self. I was the good daughter, the dutiful wife and the frightened mother and I felt I was never good enough. I was damaged and I did not want my child to follow in my footsteps. So, I searched some more for what I dreamed was my future. But I was still destructive to myself, to my husband and for a time I abandoned my writing and my search for peace.
In the darkness of the farce of my life I saw a way out. I was given forgiveness as I was. I was loved for me and nothing else. It was peace, it was joy and nothing had prepared me for the cleanness I felt inside. I could see my glorious future and laughter bubbled out of me. I was changed inside out and had no clue how to live this new me. It wasn’t what I was, what I had done, how I had acted but lost as to what to do, be, act. So I turned to what I knew. My writing; I poured out my heart in the only way I knew how. My anguish flowed out and peace flowed in. My Lord, my God heard me. The more I sweated out my desires, the more I received. It wasn’t a 1, 2, 3 or an A.B.C. plan. It wasn’t neat, sweet and clean. It was messy, dirty, painful and some doors to the past I didn’t want to bring to light. So those I buried deep and at that time it was OK. I would have to open those doors at some point but not then. Not when I was new, shaky and just learning. The Lord was kind to me and I was so grateful to Him.
Many years later, my writing is back. So different than before, that I was unsure of what to do with it. First the story telling returned, to my joy, and my children would curl up with me and listen. Then it was the grandchildren’s turn to listen. When the desire to write returned I was so thankful. So I sit at a keyboard the words flow unbidden from me and fill the page.
I am amazed, grateful and very thankful that anyone would choose to read what I write. For me writing is a necessary action of my daily life. The words, the stories must come out. I become cranky, irritable and not nice to be around if I don’t write. Writing is sanity for me and for my family. Writing is truly my life.