If I’d have been in charge of writing the story of me, I might have changed some things. I’m glad I wasn’t in charge.
But the One who was in charge gave me some amazing gifts.
He gave me the gift of a mother who loved me so much she put me in the arms of the two most amazing people on the planet and allowed them to raise me.
He gave me the gift of those two priceless people, my Grandpa and Grandma, who adopted me, loved and cared for me fiercely, and believed in me completely without good reason. They live in Heaven now, together again after death separated them for a time. Every single day I miss them desperately.
He gave me the gift of my husband, Matt, a gifted teacher of God’s Word, not to mention the best looking, kindest, funniest, strongest, and bravest man I’ve ever known. The way he loves me is extraordinary and is the very reason I believe in miracles.
He gave me the gift of my three beautiful children, Belle, Estella Dru, and Jeb, who day after day after day utterly take my breath away. When I’m not with them I want to be.
And He gave me the gift of a love for writing. I wrote my first story in second grade about an earthworm named Egbert. Though Egbert never made it off the page of my wide-ruled notebook, it was then that God planted a passion for storytelling deep inside my heart, and it’s a passion He’s been cultivating ever since.
Sometimes I wish I were an exceptionally eloquent writer. I’m not. My writing isn’t flowery or poetic. It’s not theological or lofty. It’s pretty simple, like me. But it comes from my heart—the place where He lives and speaks and inspires.
I write about the things I know and love—family, Jesus, and the South to name a few. I write about pain and healing, sorrow and joy, losing hope then finding it once more. I write about what it’s like to be a broken human who frequently needs to be put back together again. Like I said, I write about the things I know.
And along the way, I laugh a lot. Ok, a whole lot. We all need to laugh a whole lot.