I fell in love with the mysteries and romance of writing long before I truly understood it.
My grandfather was a teacher and a fascinating man. I recall many study ‘meetings’ and the allure of books neatly arranged on the shelves. He taught me how to read and write before one typically does and a whole new world opened up. He painted my black and white world in colour through a collection of his ways. Pa was so patient, he was wise and witty, he was caring and innately giving, he was a gentleman and he always showed up for those he loved. He imparted all these qualities to me and I am so grateful. He also taught me about the importance of education, discipline and perseverance. It is these very things that I carry with me, that have become so part of me.
I knew it was important to write. And knew certain stories were more important than others as well. Between fairytales and biblical accounts I had a colourful toolbox to unlock my imagination and it has certainly never been a dull moment. I have always wanted to author a book and one day I still hope to...
There is much that I have gathered in my young life, anecdotes neatly arranged on the shelves of my mind, available for my perusing from time to time. I am both modern and old at soul, intrigued by the details of the past and so (sometimes unhelpfully) curious about the way and whys of life. I often escape to lives I have never lived and wonder often about the loss of sentiments. It grieves me to see so many of us still lost, wandering about because so much is written, scripts that dictate our life, uninspired and written by men.
My surroundings revealed much about the world. Through a child’s eyes I understood that even then, there was need. I wanted to know why some had more and some less. And if we could help and how. I saw that society had separated us, those who had much from those who had very little. I knew we didn't have a lot in comparison to much but I always had more than enough. I so admire the faith of my parents. And their sacrifice. To give us more than they had and to teach what we cannot simply put a price on - the art of giving. They had so sacrificially provided more (than I think we sometimes deserved) and still do. I want to understand it, how one gives without having much, what the ultimate Giver says about this very nature of selflessness. A nature we are called to. I did not have much of a choice in the matter, my story was already written and revealed chapters of surrender and giving, rest and waiting, faith. It so appeared that all my questioning and wanting to understand was leading me back to the source, the Author. For it was not simply doing but accepting the kind of love that offers compassion.
I think my compassion is a collection of stories in itself, the way I saw my family give of themselves, the very nature of Christ and learning to be like him. And so evidently seeing how many of us are in need.
It was then that I figured out that I could be a writer, revealing truths and hopefully stirring something in someone else.
The first writer memory I have is wanting to be a journalist on the frontlines of war. I wanted to go where I could see the worst of the world, where it was dangerous enough, where it should surely mean something to tell the stories of death. Surely, a young child should not crave to see destruction, human vulnerability and mortality. I suppose I did – I knew that it would be important to go and to share something, help change something. And I thought that a pen and paper would be a worthy weapon.
I wanted to be an ambassador of truth, I still do. Telling intentional and necessary stories.
Where I find myself now is telling stories, the truths of those who do want to make a difference. Those who have offered of themselves to come along side vulnerable communities to empower, equip and enable a better life.
It is such a privilege to join the mission of many truth ambassadors, to partner with those walking in their redemptive purpose.
I hope that I inspire more to tell stories too.
May you choose redemption.
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