In my beginnings . . .

My early years consisted of running through sprinklers, sitting in wash tub “swimming pools”, playing in the dirt and riding bikes up and down the road in a little-known farm area of Michigan. Imagination was the best toy. Exchanging frogs for Fisher Price people to use on my boat or creating an entire house in an apple tree was not uncommon.

Summer grass tickled my toes and by summer’s end my skin was calloused and tough. The sounds of summer are ingrained into my memory: frogs singing as the day fell asleep, cicadas droning their misery on hot days, my dad’s lawn mower buzzing around the yard, or the sound of a plane banking over our house when spraying the potato fields on our road. The smells are there too: cut grass, dusty air, and damp earth. Every morning my dad watered the garden, a place of business and deliciousness. Most of the summer the garden is where we found mom and dad; harvest time had us girls working too, whether shucking peas, snapping beans, or husking sweet corn. We even had one fall of apple picking in the orchard next to us. The garden was where the summer tastes resided: strawberries, sweet corn, and watermelon.

Fall meant school which I dearly loved. Kindergarten brought artistic compliments on my crayon coloring, but it was upper elementary that that kindled both my love for reading and writing. Summers were spent reading library books, one summer numbering over a hundred books to win the reading program at the library (my award Prairie School by Lois Lenski – the librarian knew me well), which propelled me through the reading curriculum at school more quickly. My sixth- grade teacher allowed me to walk across the road to the high school library and choose books to read. After reading them I would have to write a report – this was my “reading group” that year. I consumed book after book discovering authors like Marguerite Henry. Reports were not a chore either for I loved writing what the story had just implanted in my imagination. In fact, I began to imagine stories of my own and won the young authors contest for my grade level with my story entitled, “The Biggest Losers” (a story about softball not weight loss). The reward was meeting and talking to a published author. I’d like to say my writing took off from there, but I was a social kid and did not devote my free time to writing stories, though I kept up on journaling. It wasn’t until I had moved from home that writing stories became part of my life.

Off into the World . . .

 I dragged my “do it my way” self with me for a few years beyond high school, into college and beyond. God stirred the pot and kindled the fire. He knew where He wanted to get me, but I was a stubborn one.

In the turbulent “fiery-waters” I was unsuccessfully navigating, I had lost one of my biggest encouragers, my mom, for a brief time due to my own errors. Thankfully, we mended the leaky boat, and we were afloat once again. God was gleaning off the dross. Unfortunately for me, it was just the beginning of purification. 

My grandma also played a key role at this time, as I lived with her for two years. She was my biggest cheerleader. I spent two years living with her while I attended the community college; she came to college functions with me, helped me study for tests and always stuck up for me. When I attended university, she continued to talk with me each week while I rented a trailer house, navigated a full-time job, four university courses and dated.

These years consisted of friend mistakes, elopement, and obtaining my first teaching job clear in Alaska…at a different grade level than which I had been trained. My entire family pitched in to help us pack. The trip across the country was the most I’d ever traveled and had me journaling as we came across new sights. After the shock of the first year, I asked to be transferred to a village opening—the only teacher at that time to ever request to go from the town to a village. I really am a country girl at heart. I wanted both out of “town” and to teach at the level in which I was trained. 

Though I made some treasured friends, I was not thriving in my job nor my marriage. I could not keep the special education laws straight in my mind, and the legal paperwork was horrible for me. Writing became an escape from all that I disliked about my situation. The first writing beyond the quarterly newsletters home was writing a poem a day for a full year. Then I moved on to a romance story (which was never finished), and then to children’s stories that came more easily to me.

As I sought for a different position in which to teach, possibly even a different school, things got even worse for my marriage until it ended. I made a boatload of mistakes up until this time. I’ve often wondered why God has the confidence in us to make an eternal decision in such a short amount of time.  I would like to think I imparted upon the students something worthwhile in which they might navigate life, but I rather think I was the one doing most of the learning at that time since I was adrift with no compass. One thing I know, I left the village possessing more of life’s lessons than when I arrived and less of the impurities God was refining out of me.

Various Season

As my marriage ended, the sun came upon a new chapter of life. Having resigned from teaching, I found myself working a maid job at remote Zachar Bay Lodge on Kodiak Island in Alaska. I learned a lot about myself that summer. I spent the next few years searching scripture to find why David was called a “man after God’s own heart”; I felt much like the female version of David. I dedicated my life to the Lord as I realized I had never purposefully done in the past. I’d grown up in the church, had even been confirmed, but never made this type of conscious commitment.  I began to dream again, allowing myself to do so after emerging from the hard season in which dreams didn’t seem to exist.  

I learned about God’s love, an unconditional love, through two of the most important people in my life: my mom and my new fiancé, Andy. Both loved me in my brokenness and helped me to discover missing pieces that needed to be replaced. I finally felt accepted as my imperfect self with no demands on who I should be. I was simply loved.

After two years of dating Andy, the oldest son of the lodge owners, we married and two years later we had our first child, a beautiful little girl. I was not prepared for the loneliness of having a child in a remote setting. My focus was on her and the focus of the rest of the crew was on working. There were no neighbors nor anyplace in which to go. Writing was no longer just an escape but a type of therapy.

With the addition of her energetic brother four years later, time at the lodge became a series of reading, learning, and playing. Imagination again was key for there were no stores in which to obtain “entertainment”. Once again little things around me were enjoyed but now as a family: wildflowers dangling off the cliffs, a moon lit night, searching for constellations, the fresh crisp salty air and wild animals passing through.

“Growing” a story

Life’s experiences have helped to shape many of my children’s stories. In each of my children’s stories written to date, I can tell you of an event in my life that parallels or inspired certain parts of the story. There are also people in the story that reflect real people I have known who have similar characteristics. Sometimes I am in the story as well. The settings also mimic the two places I have lived: the mid-west and Alaska. I can visualize the story happening because they happen in places I have lived.

Life is full of stories. I am just starting my career as a published author. However, I have been an unpublished author for decades. And I will continue to write what God lays upon my heart well into the future.