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 degree 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.