It was just barely a year ago when I was sitting at a river in Gore, Oklahoma drinking coffee and reading, when the Holy Spirit flooded my soul with the truth about my purpose. I have been writing since I was very young but, like a lot of things in my life, I picked my writing apart. In the quiet of the two story house by the river as the sun was rising I heard the love of the Creator of all things tell me I was created by His hands and now I need to tell my story. It was, and still is, terrifying. There are parts of my story I tend to hide from everyone I know, including myself.
Over this last year I have written out chapters and rewritten chapters. I have blogged about parts of my story that have been hard, and lessons have been learned. I am so very grateful for this first year of knowing what I am created for. Knowing that I am healing and putting a stop to the heritage of wounds being passed from generation to generation within my family.
This year I was moved by the movement within my moments. Little shifts that seem to make the future that has been so blurry, begin to take shape. It has been like looking at an impressionistic painting by God himself. My moments really do matter is what I kept seeing. All of this, all the past pains, the present blur and the future creation of my story, all will come together written in ink to tell a story. My story.
So as I finish out my first year officially recognizing myself as a writer, I felt I needed to share a bit with you. I am on a journey. I am collecting moments and putting past, present and future together. I am doing things that matter in the very personal way that I was created to do them in and I am writing it all down. It may not be today that my dreams come true, but it will be today that I will collect the words and breath myself out on pages.
I asked my Caleb to paint me a peace of art to wear on my sleeve so as I go from moment to moment I can be reminded that my story was written by my creator, and although I don’t know how it ends, it’s time that I share what I know with the world. To be reminded that even when it’s not all clear, there is beauty in the impressionism of my art and it will flow into crisp and deeply felt truths. It was a hard piece to have done because the step into light from darkness hasn’t been easy. Laying down the heavy habit of self destruction for the lightness of God’s truths has been a decision that I am still learning to make moment by moment. Now I wear my dream for the world to see and I know that means more then a flippant comment about being a writer will work. I have to be all that I am created to be, not just say that I am.
So I am sharing with you a bit of my story and pieces of my soul. I am sharing with you my art work and the story behind it.
The quill and inkwell represent my dream to write. My unique talent to share my soul with words, while recognizing that I am not the only writer but having faith that I am the only one that can write my story in this way. Also, I love antiques, I love that there is a story that comes with an item that belong to a generation that I never have. They hold with them a piece of a life that I may never know personally but I will always be connected with. I can spend hours walking amongst the stories in an antique store. I love to listen to their history just as much as I love to walk the book stories and smell the words.
As the ink flows out of the well and begins to take shape I feel my heart begins to come alive, beating with the rhythm of the paint. I can remember the first time I saw a painting by Claude Monet. It wasn’t in a book. I was standing in the Philbrook Museum of Art in Tulsa, Oklahoma. No art work had felt more like truth to me then Monet’s impressionism work. When I got to see Vincent Van Gogh’s Starry Night, I felt the story deep within myself. I find that my most cherished memories come back to me looking like the work of the artist that I love. This is where the telling of my story is currently. It’s in the beautiful blur of the paint on the canvas. It’s there, it’s breathing out onto the pages but it is being created and refined, just like me I guess.
As the flow of ink begins to take shape, so will my words. My hope is that as you, my reader, lets them sink into part of your story, they will bring beauty. I dream that my story of healing a heritage of wounds will bring beauty and truth by way of belief in your own value.
May you breath in the truth of your value and breath out the lies you have been told.