I couldn't sleep one night so I decided to do one of my favorite things, read. I finished the book I was reading called "The Secret LIfe of Bees," but I still wasn't sleepy. There was an interview with the author, Sue Monk Kidd, in the back of the book, so I began to read it in hope that sleep would soon come. Instead, I made a great discovery, a real treasure! In the interview, the author made this statement in reference to her memoir writings:
"I think many people need, even require, a narrative version of their life. I seem to be one of them. Writing memoir is, in some ways, a work of wholeness."
A chord was struck in me and a sound wave of inspiration began to vibrate inside me, working its way to the surface. The thought of writing about my childhood had been something I had been toying around with for some time. However, I just couldn't find the purpose in it. To what end would I write about myself?
Wholeness.
Now that speaks to me of purpose. One of my long standing prayers to God has been "please make me whole."
Wholeness: "An undivided or unbroken completeness or totality with nothing wanting*."
If there is even a remote possibility of God bringing wholeness into my life by means of me writing my memoirs (memories), then how can I resist? I am an adventurer at heart and this would definitely be a grand adventure, as well as a huge leap of faith!
I admit that I have been a little perplexed and somewhat overwhelmed as to where to begin. Over thinking things always bogs me down. So, I have decided just to jot down memories as they come to me and post them in bits and pieces. I am not sure yet just how much the Lord wants me to reveal through memoir, but I want to warn you that sometimes what I share may be very "real" and sometimes raw in nature. Unfortunately, brokenness defined my life for a very long time and I can already see that evidence of it will seep out into my writing.
My goal - to invite you to a view of just one of my many paths to wholeness, all which lead to the source of wholeness - Jesus - and to encourage you to seek out your own path to wholeness.
Here goes...
Snippet #1:
Most of my early childhood was lived out in a little obscure bayside town in Florida called Eastpoint. It was neatly tucked away between its sister towns of Carrabelle and Apalachicola. It was one of those towns that if you blinked while passing through it, you might just miss it all together. Eastpoint was easy to navigate. I never heard tell of anyone ever getting lost within its limits. It was divided up by a front road (also called the main road and technically called hwy. 98), a back road, and a few dirt side roads that had no names. Oh yeah, there was that extra road at the very edge of town that we called the dump road because that's where it led, to the town dump. By nature of its location, no one resided on that road. At the intersection of the front road and one of those old dirt side roads is where my house sat.
From this corner lot vantage point, this ninety-degree angle, I watched the world pass by me. Occasionally I would get a lift of the hand or a nod of the head, acknowledging my presence, evidence that I could be seen even though I had my doubts. To be fair, how much sight does a ninety-degree angle really afford passersby into the life of someone else? Can people be held accountable for their limited vision, their inability to see beyond what's right in front of them? Probably not, at least not according to my experience. Some days I wished someone would see past the facade, the smiling face and my own lift of the hand, to what was really going on around me and inside me. At other times, it filled me with great fear to think that someone would see the reality of my life.
The good news is, even though I wasn't fully aware of it at the time, just catching glimpses of hope here and there, there was One who could see all things, not only what was, but what was to come - a full-circle view. Nothing was hidden from Him. Oh, how the hand of God plays out in such a bittersweet way in the lives of those that call upon His name and I did call, many, many times.
Snippet #2:
A fence surrounded my house. Not a very good one mind you. It was made from wire and wooden posts. My imagination would have it be a chain-linked fence with metal posts and a nice gate, but in my heart I know that isn’t so and, actually, I am glad.
There's no character in a well-put together fence. A fence of good character needs evidence of having been climbed over dozens of times, leaning slightly here and there, toe holds a plenty, and spots sagging under the weight of blackberry vines and wild, running rose bushes.
Another thing - what is a gate that doesn’t announce one’s coming and going with a faithful creak? Rude, that’s what. No, my gate was nice and polite, greeting those that came in and speaking farewells to those that left. In addition to its role as greeter, it also served as a sentry. It alerted me to the people who were about to enter my world, giving me time to think about how I was going to respond – a warm welcome or a quick exit out the back door. Sometimes, according to who was walking through that gate, it was very important that I not be caught unaware.
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