Since Always
A friend of mine recently asked me how old I was when I began writing when I knew I loved it. I paused and thought before responding, “Since always.”
When I was in the second grade, my family moved from Georgia to New Jersey, right in the middle of the school year. I remember during the first week in my new school, my teacher, Mrs. McBride, told me that my former teacher, Mrs. Easterling, had asked if our classes could become pen pals. (I don’t know how I remember their names. I have a freakishly accurate memory, no matter what my brother says.) Each student from my new class in New Jersey was matched with a student from my former class in Georgia, and we exchanged letters and photos for the remainder of the year. Not only did this help me transition from one school to another, but it was great letter-writing practice. (Proper letter formatting is a lost art I tell you). I discovered I loved being a pen pal and it quickly became a full-blown hobby.
I started writing to my cousins, aunts, uncles, and old neighbors, you name it. If I had their address, they were getting a letter from me. (I cringe now at the thought of my loved ones, innocently opening their mailboxes only to be subjected to a flood of bubble-lettered notes yammering on about my new softball uniforms and the pain of having my braces tightened for the eleven hundredth time.) From there, I was introduced to the wide world of stationery. God bless my mom for all the money she dropped at McWhorters Stationers, Hallmark, and Papyrus, not to mention the post office to buy my stamps. She graciously fueled my addiction. I guess she figured I could have worse interests. I was known for wandering into stores like that and not coming out for hours. I had a basket in my room that overflowed with stationery sets and pens of every color. Later, I branched out to hand-crafted notecards, using my growing collection of rubber stamps, inks, and embossers. This was back when I thought crafting was my calling. I’ve since learned my lesson. To everyone who received a glittery mess of a letter from me in the 1990s, I sincerely apologize.
My correspondence didn’t stop there. I often wrote messages to my parents, (they lived in the same house as me). I would cowardly slip letters under their bedroom door or tape to their bathroom mirrors, usually, to confess wrongdoing or make an absurd request I knew they’d never entertain if I asked them in person. For example, from behind the shield of construction paper and a magic marker, I asked if I could skip school the next morning on account of missing my grandparents, (who were alive and well but just lived out of state). I mean, really.
Throughout junior high and high school, I was blessed with some wonderful English teachers. Those teachers encouraged my love for the written word and affirmed my writing. They ignited my passion for reading which quickly expanded beyond The Babysitters Club series and into classic literature and Shakespeare. In my junior year of high school, I took Advanced Composition with Mrs. Damon (I told you. Freakish.) She introduced me to true storytelling. For the first time, I began to write in-depth about my life experiences, (of which there weren’t many yet). She taught me how to eliminate “fluff words,” and edit without diluting the emotion of a piece. For our first big assignment, we were tasked with writing about an experience that deeply impacted us. I chose to write about the time my dad had heart trouble while he and my mom were on a trip to Austria. My brother and I were home alone, about to start the school year, me as a freshman and him as a junior. I started my first day of high school while my dad was hospitalized and having a stent put in his heart, an ocean away. I hadn’t fully understood how difficult that experience was for me until I put pen to paper. It was the first time I realized how helpful writing could be, and how comforting it was to leave it all on the page. Writing was an outlet for my emotions I didn’t know existed. I got an A on that assignment. Mrs. Damon was the first teacher to tell me I had a gift for writing. I’ve never forgotten it.
By 17 I was not only writing for English classes and maintaining strong pen-pal relations with anyone and everyone, but I was also trying my hand at poetry. There was a poetry contest for our senior class; the winner would read their poem aloud at our graduation ceremony. I was shocked and delighted when mine was chosen. In hindsight, there was a good chance I was the only one who submitted anything, as poetry writing wasn’t exactly considered “cool,” but I was proud to be allowed to read my carefully crafted words to an audience of hundreds. I’m a bit mortified to read the poem now. A poet laureate I was most certainly not, but what I lacked in talent I made up for in confidence. (Story of my life.)
After graduation, I branched out to everyone’s favorite, holiday letters. Honestly, I was just chomping at the bit for more writing opportunities and I thought, Who wouldn’t appreciate reading the charming anecdotes of a new college freshman? I’m certain my mother tried to talk me out of it, but as all parental advice does when you’re a teenager, it fell on deaf ears. (Add this to the list of things I was wrong about, Mom, if you have any paper left.) I recently found a copy of that letter in an old scrapbook. God forgive me, but I wrote things like, “Senior year of high school is something every person must experience for oneself.” I’m certain that letter was the butt of many family jokes around the dinner table that Christmas.
As I matured, my love for letter writing morphed more into a love for encouragement. I found I could express my appreciation, support, and love for others best through the written word. My stationery collection remained vast and I developed a real knack for picking out cards. I was such a frequent customer at my local Hallmark store that they told me to fill out an application. I did, and less than a year later I was the Assistant Manager. A good portion of my paycheck went to encouraging others that year and I have no regrets about it. Sending handwritten notes and cards is still my favorite way to love others.
Still, suffice it to say, not all my writings were used for good, God-glorifying purposes. Often my writings were self-glorifying, and I believe that’s the very reason I wasn’t called to start this blog until just last summer. Knowing you have a gift doesn’t mean you know how to use your gift in the right way. I’ve always had a lot to say and knew I could say it well. But does what I have to say matter to anyone but me? And if it only matters to me, is it even worth saying? That’s where I became unsure. In the end, I resolved that writing was a God-given passion of mine, and for that reason, my words mattered. If not to anyone else, they mattered to God, and that was enough. He continually uses my words to heal my past hurts, redeem me from shame, convict my spirit, and affirm my strengths. What a tremendous honor if my words can do the same for others.
I’m so grateful for the little spark that started in my heart back in the second grade. I was given so many ways to practice my gift, to fan that flame. Each one helped me cultivate my skills and hone in on the kind of writing that could breathe life into my own heart and the hearts of my readers. Every time I sit down to write, I discover something new about myself and God. How long has it been that way? Since always.