I spent some time recently reminiscing about our small-town Christmas traditions.
“With Nana and Grampa both gone now, that part of our Christmas tradition has faded, replaced with new gatherings as our family has grown and changed. Their old farmhouse, built with my grandfather’s hands, sold recently, and it’s hard to think about Christmas memories from a place I’ll never be again.”
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Published by Amy McDonald
My earliest memories are of grace and pencils. I have been obsessed with writing implements from the age of 2, when I insisted upon carrying a pencil in one arm and a baby doll named Susie Q in the other. My love of writing began almost as early -- awkwardly penned Mother's Day poems and love notes to my Grandpa eventually blossomed into short stories and A+ essays and a bachelor's egree in journalism.
I spent the next 20 years in public relations, writing for other people -- putting a leader's vision on paper, helping engineers sound simple, and explaining the reasons companies do what they do.
Along the way, I all but forgot to write for myself. My own voice surfaced only in times of heartbreak and loss -- an obituary for my Grandpa, a farewell to my first love, and a good bit of bad poetry.
I can do better. That's where grace comes in. God's grace was made known to me back in the time of pencils, before PCs and keyboards and devices smarter than I am. His grace saves, forgives, atones, provides, waits patiently, and embraces all over again. His grace gives me purpose worth writing about.
Not my voice, but Thine.
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