Browne,_Henriette_-_A_Girl_Writing;_The_Pet_Goldfinch_-_Google_Art_ProjectAs a child, my favorite book was the dictionary—oh, what a wonder! Words upon words, like paint on a pallet or voices in a choir or instruments in an orchestra. I held each one, examining its parts, sinking into its meaning, and dreaming of endless combinations.

This was my adventure. While other kids were exploring the great outdoors, I was exploring the great worlds of words.

Dad would weekly go on a business trip and my job was to find a word that would stump him upon his return. (Which never happened if my memory serves me well.) Eventually, the words started linking together into stories which my Mom lovingly scooped up and had bound into books. I viewed well-arranged words as sheer art, and poorly arranged words as, well, something less than art. I could read the latter, but the former actually brought me joy.

My parents say that I have always been a writer. At my high school graduation, the powers that be gave me the English award. My English teacher (a devout Hindu) and I (an argumentative atheist) had more than a few heated disagreements in the classroom. But she still had the grace to see and speak something of life over my pen.

Soon afterwards, a seismic shift occurred as Jesus interrupted my life. Oh, to encounter the Word incarnate, to hear His voice speaking from the pages of the bible—words were now alive. Words were now conversations.

open bible with penI began to journal immediately, writing out my conversations with God. My pen would pause as I listened to the Holy Spirit rearranging my thoughts, opening my understanding, guided me ever nearer. Having been an atheist, the reality that I could now think with God was astounding. Journal after journal was flooded with our conversations, with my prayers, with His tangible mentoring of my mind and soul.

After graduating from college, I served in Asia (and delighted in an assignment to write a missions mobilization manual that was used in Australia), married my handsome husband (who inspired me to begin writing songs), and a few years later felt led to take a sabbatical in what was my seventh year of full-time ministry.

Emerging from that space, for the first time I experienced a longing to write a book. My guess was that only my husband, my mom, and my dad would ever read it… but I was writing to process, not to publish. An Anchor in the Desert began taking shape slowly. No deadlines drove it. No expectations shaped it. I simply typed in God’s presence when something came to my mind to write.

Then one day, our computer crashed and the entire document was lost. Lost. In its entirety. Eventually I had to give up the rescue attempt which kept returning text files filled with strange symbols. The file was irreparably corrupted. All I could do was grieve. Only God remembers the words. All I have is the memory of the title.

I share this experience because it was among the first of many graces in which disappointment brought depth to my journey as a writer. Many generous hearts have offered many generous words about Anonymous: Jesus’ Hidden Years and Yours and especially about the prologue:

“In winter are we bare? Yes. In winter are we barren? No. True life still is. The Father’s work in us does not sleep–though in spiritual winters he retracts all advertisement. And when he does so, he is purifying our faith, strengthening our character, conserving our energy, and preparing us for the future. The sleepy days of winter hide us so that the seductive days of summer will not ruin us.”  (p. 3)

However I originally wrote these words as a chapter for an earlier book and they were rejected as “confusing and irrelevant.”

Many writers have much different stories, but the pattern for me to date has been to dream, to bury dreams, to grieve silent soil, and then stand in wonder at the emergence of quietly influential life.open door

Years after An Anchor in the Desert was buried, pain unexpectedly closed a door of ministry. The details are unnecessary, but a dream that I thought would fill a lifetime became toxic for my soul due to factors outside my control. As God closed that door, He left open the one He was inviting me through: a door that led me into speaking and writing. Disappointment thinned my dreams enough for me to see a calling that had simmered in God’s heart for decades. A few years later,  in 2003, by His grace, Jesus opened the way for my written words to stick on paper and, via paper, in souls whom I would never had the opportunity to personally meet.

Before I knew Him, God imprinted upon me His love for words. When I awakened to Him, His breath inspired words to dance within me. My love of words in general and my love for the Word in particular had been sweetened by hope and seasoned by pain.  (to be continued)

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