My Name In Print

I distinctly remember the first time I knew I was a lover of words and stories.  I was a first grader, and Miss Kennedy's daily readings of Uncle Wiggily stories sent me into a head-over-heels plunge.  I was read to constantly as a child, but at 6 years old I took ownership of the love, and books became my best friends.

Soon I began to be drawn to writing.  Spelling came naturally to me as did grammar, not to mention I was that kid who thought writing in cursive was the coolest thing ever. I liked sentences and the way words sounded when put together.  As a fifth grader I was given a writing assignment by my Language Arts teacher; I had no idea it was an essay competition until the day I was called out of class and informed that I had won the S.C. Lt. Governor's Award for Excellence in Descriptive Writing.  My career aspirations took root as an 11-year-old when I made it known that I was going to be an English teacher and a writer.

Three years later, as an eighth grader, I won the Lt. Governor's Award award again, this time for Expository Writing.  For a brief moment I dared to believe that I had been gifted with the talent of writing and allowed myself to dream of someday being a 'real' writer.  But before I could finish basking in the glow of my newborn dream, harsh criticism (in the form of whispers of other 14-year-olds, behind my back, but just loud enough for me to hear, saying the only reason I won was because my father was the school district superintendent) delivered a devastating blow.  Fear, shame and embarrassment engulfed me and my dream crashed and burned - I believed the whispers.

Still a devout lover of words and stories and language, yet devoid of all confidence that I could produce anything of worth, I focused my energy on the teaching part of the dream, allowing it to be a conduit for my passion.  I didn't abandon writing altogether; I wrote in journals, I wrote sample essays for my students, I wrote poetry, I wrote letters, I wrote stories.  I wrote constantly, but for a highly controlled, severely limited audience.  The general public wouldn't see my writing again for more than 20 years. 

When I spent my first summer in Peru in 2006, some friends asked if I would journal the experience and share my entries with them (this was before blogging became popular, and before most people had even heard the word 'blog').  I agreed and my writings about my time in the jungle began circulating among close friends via email.  For the next two summers I continued my email journaling while my reader base expanded.  By 2009 I was living in Peru as a full-time missionary.  'Blog' had become a household word and the act of 'blogging' was an expectation in the world of foreign missions and its supporters.  So I launched my first official blog and my writing was now reaching an even larger audience.

Somewhere between late 2014 and early 2015 I caught a glimpse of something.  A flicker in my mind's eye.  A faint glimmer.  A distant memory.  I thought it was dead, buried long ago as an unrealistic whim of an idealistic teenager.  Some encouraging words here and there and a few comments of "You should write a book" and "You know, you're a really good writer" caused me to search the recesses of my brain and dig deep into my heart.  What I discovered was that the dream I thought had crashed and burned 30 years earlier was still there.  How was that even possible?

And so, with a lot of counsel and even more prayer, I took a bold step back in October by wiping the slate clean, starting this brand new blog, committing to writing, and investing in a gift that God intends for me to develop and use.  My first major commitment has been to the discipline of writing - thus the 2016 calendar year will see 52 posts made to my blog - one each week as I train myself to write on a regular basis rather than on emotion or whim.  Another aspect of this part of my journey with God has been creating a vision for at least one book and making a plan to bring it to fruition.  A third leg of this dream revived is honing my craft as an editor.  It's a leap of faith.  I'm scared.  And this time the whisperers aren't teenage classmates; the wolves that would threaten to eat me are bigger and meaner.  But that's ok.  

Once I told the Lord that I was ready for the next adventure with Him, He began to throw open doors of confirmation.  He's provided me with one miraculous 'coincidence' after another letting me know that I am, indeed, following the sweet sound of the Holy Spirit's voice.  One of the first miraculous coincidences was meeting and becoming friends with Brenda McGraw - writer, author, and founder of Ask God Today Ministries - whose enthusiasm and positive energy are contagious.  From the moment we met she has encouraged and challenged me in my writing.  Another miraculous coincidence was being introduced to a writer and author from Texas named Sandy Kreps.  Sandy took a chance and gave me, an unknown nobody, an opportunity to edit her new book, Mommy Simplicity.  I celebrate the publication of Sandy's book because it is amazing (I will write in more detail about the book next week), but also because, contained in its pages is my name in print, an acknowledgement of me as her editor - a huge step toward my dream coming true... 


(*Sandy's book is currently available on Amazon.com for pre-order in both Kindle and Paperback formats and will be available for immediate sale on Wednesday, January 27.  Click the book title link above to purchase your copy.)  

Clean Britches

My two year old has always liked the way I loudly and somewhat melodiously (not really), in my best attempt at being a baritone, sing the phrase "clean britches" to him while hauling him to the changing table to handle yet another "stinky-shooey."  He laughs and tries to imitate me.  Moments later, sporting an unsoiled diaper and the fresh scent of baby wipes, he bounds through the house with a little spring in his step.  Getting clean will do that for you.

At some other point in time I texted a friend.  I apologized for the time (some ridiculous hour before the sun came up), saying I had to send the message before I got sucked back into the world of diapers and dump trucks and totally forgot.  In her reply she chuckled and said that would be a great name for a blog.

And suddenly there it was, on a screen; confirmation of the nudging I'd been feeling in my spirit for months.  Writing has been part of who I am for as long as I can remember.  I knew as far back as fifth grade when I won the Lt. Governor's Award for writing that regardless of whether or not anyone ever read another word I wrote, there would never be a time in my life when I would not feel compelled to put pen to paper.  

After a few failed attempts at getting my writing noticed I spent many years writing only for myself or my students.  I became a blogger while I was a missionary serving in Iquitos, Peru because it was the easiest way to maintain communication with my supporters while also giving me time to hone my craft and begin to find my voice.  On my return trip to the U.S. I managed to contract a raging case of writer's block.  A mere six posts over the past three years, that's it.  Other than journaling that's all the writing I've done.

But God has been speaking to my heart now for longer than I would like to admit.  He's been calling me to write.  Not for me, but for Him.  I haven't been listening.  Well, I have, but I've been ignoring Him.  Fear has paralyzed me.  Fear of the rejection and stinging criticism of something so personal.  Yet each time I say I'm scared He replies, "It's not about you."  As only God operates, He initiated a string of events, a series of coincidences (i.e. random encounters with just the right people, particular Facebook posts or specific Tweets, a book, a free opportunity to hear 20 different leaders, writers, and speakers, etc.) to be the bonk on the forehead necessary to spur me to action.  I took notice.  I mean, there are only so many bonks you can endure before you get a headache!

Last night I listened to Glennon Doyle Melton, a highly sought after author and speaker among Christian women, talk about her fears, and the messiness and history of addiction that is her life, and her desire to be authentic.  Then midnight rolled around and Friday became Saturday - October 10 - a very important day in our family - my little boy's Adoption Day.  I sat on my couch in the 2 a.m. silence and prayed, my heart pounding so hard and loud I was scared it would wake everyone up, and said yes to God's call.  If He has gone to the trouble to orchestrate a thousand circumstances to get my attention, and caused them to simultaneously converge on the day we celebrate a major miracle in our lives, then the time has come for me to walk in obedience. 

To do this right means putting on some clean britches.  Renaming the old blog will not do.  It's time for the fresh scent of a new start.  And my friend was right, Diapers and Dump Trucks is a catchy title.  I like it.  But it's also symbolic.  You see, my life moves in a constant cycle: from a bright white unspoiled canvas, to a dirty mess, to cleaning up the mess (diapers), to hauling off the mess (dump trucks), to breaking out another blank slate and starting over again.  So here I am on a brand new blog, ready to see where God takes me.