The beginning has come in fits and starts. Years and years and years of journals and papers and letters and songs. Studying my toes and staring at trees and clouds, gallivanting across the earth; tending to babies, following a husband, working long hours, staying up late sewing Easter dresses and arranging spring baskets and chocolate surprises.
Struggles and wrestling with unseen things has led me down a long and dusty road. Much of the angst has been my own refusal to walk. I, the stubborn daughter, being pulled by my wrist as I drag my feet through the mud along the way. There has always been a ‘knowing’ inside that this was my calling. Yet I seem to be very able to discount it as impossible make believe and if there was anything hopeful I would simply deflect it and relegate it to a tall shelf, way above my head. The ‘knowing’ easily became a ‘doubting’. Eventually the doubt just disappears into nothingness and the idea is a distant and forgotten thought.
So here that daughter is, timidly looking from behind a crumbling wall. Realizing there is Light out there and she CAN actually see for the steps ahead. One foot in front of the other; no longer being dragged but intentionally looking up and outward. She is stretching her wings; getting ready to soar into the sky.
“The pen of a ready writer.”-Psalms 45:1
