God is in Your Story

I am a writer. 

It was something I was certain of from a very young age. I remember as a little girl, sitting with my dolls and barbies, spilling stories from my lips as I dressed and prepared them for a game that was never played. My mother used to say my imagination was endless; my stories tall and my adventures wide. 

They knew. 

When I was in highschool I kept a treasure trove of all the essays and poems I had written, kindly photocopied by my teachers along the way. I spent hours poring over them, analyzing what I could have done better, where I could’ve twisted the stories more or have drawn them in. I could feel the desire burning, the need to tell a story that would not only shock, but bring the reader to an immovable place of redemption. It was in me.

Knowing and doing are two different things. I played it safe in university, leaning towards the Psychology aspect of my degree and not the English, switching to Education as I figured out my life. It wasn’t long before I found myself in a classroom, my eyes darting between students that needed to understand Shakespeare and poetry and adverbs and all the things that formed my love for the one thing I wasn’t doing. I remember my husband and I sitting on the couch one night sipping a cup of coffee. The conversation had been heated. Financial; we were strained. And just four months into my teaching career I knew I was in the wrong job. Close enough, but not quite right. I was unfulfilled. I remember standing up, and rather flamboyantly declaring that the world was at a loss and everything was quite ruined and the future would forever be glum. To which he replied, ever so gently and graciously, why didn’t I write. I had forgotten. His words were a lamp to a darkened path. 

I rapidly took up freelancing, dishing out technical documentation faster than I could type. My husband had been right, but something was still off. One night in a homegroup we were talking about dealing with difficult people, and I bravely mentioned that I was well accustomed to having character discussions in my head, rounding off arguments and bringing in fair points. Scenes playing out, things I’d say to counter their points - my world. To which I received some odd stares, one frown and three great laughs. This was, as I soon found out, not everybody elses normal. 

Isn’t God so patient with us, as He weaves little clues and kindness into our journey of exploration. 

A mere four years later I released my first novel, earning little money, but making all the difference. I’ve had more messages of encouragement and stories of change than I could bank, each one a reminder of the little girl who sat playing with her dolls, speaking stories into life one line at a time. 

If I could turn back to that treasure trove, sift through the musings of my childhood mind, I would be ever so grateful. The file was lost across the years of moving house and growing up. But I know that is where my story began, and only God knows where it ends. I’m just so blessed to be a part of everything in between.

God is in all of our stories. Woven through the fabric, intertwined in the heartache and battles. His design is stamped on us, pressed into who we are and who He is within us. Looking back, it was obvious. There from the start. But sometimes seeing with our own eyes can take time. Today, I encourage you, if you are on that path of discovery, look back across the story of your life and ask Him to show you where He has highlighted precious moments that will help lead to you doing what you love, for Him.

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