If I could paint a picture...

I feel like a child, eagerly dancing before God’s throne, with my arms fully extended, lifting my heart toward him saying, “Here! Here! Take it! Make it something pretty. I wanna see! I wanna see!”
You laugh maybe, but that’s the image I got today after I finished a prayer that I realized was entirely full of eagerness and anticipation and a longing to fulfill every purpose that God made me for. The words came easily, releasing my mind, body and heart to Him and His purposes, without fear or hesistation. I have things I hope is part of His will for me life – but more than anything I want to easily hear God. To be able to eagerly obey out of love and excitement. To know without any doubts that what I’m doing is someething He decreed and therefore will succeed exactly the way he wants. To be allowed to serve Him and live out my God-created identity no matter what it is or what other people think. To be in love with my God.
So far, when I pray for direction, He’s just said ‘wait.’ It’s hard but I’m learning. Yesterday I felt He was saying I would have to give up my idea of a sucessful timeline and actions according to where the world thinks I should be at for my age. It’s hard for me to wait. I feel like a racehorse, prancing in the gate, waiting for it to open. But I know there’s a reason and He knows what is best for me.
I’m so excited and eager to see what God is going to make me into and use me for. When I get to Heaven, I don’t want to feel like there was a role in the history of this world that I was meant to play –and didn’t. I am understanding God now in ways I never did before and I wish everyone in the world could realize how good God really is.
I wish I was an artist. How drastically different this picture is than the little girl hiding in the bogs I described a year or so ago.

Sunday, April 18, 2010
If I could paint a picture....
If I could paint a picture, I would paint the image that came to me in church today.

I saw a man seated. I could not see his face but the jagged scars in his wrists identified him at once. He was in a garden of soft green with flowers peeping from between the blades of grace. A tree is at his back, lowering branches of a weeping willow around the group gathered around him. His hand strokes the face of a little girl with golden curls and a light blue dress. She is laughing through sparkling blue eyes. Her sash is white, clean and unwrinkled. On his other side is another girl with dark hair and a headband, wearing a dress of forest green. She kneels in front of him, her hands touching his knee. She, too, is unafraid. Between the two girls stands another, holding up a string of beads. A work of art that she has labored over and eagerly shows for his approval. It is granted by the look on her face.
But in the far corner, there is something which at first glance mars the peaceful scene. One more girl in a tattered, drab gown somewhere between the color of green and grey. Her sash trails the ground, hanging at one side where it has come loose. Brown hair hangs half hiding her face, whips flying up, lacking the touch of a comb. She is not part of the group. Not even close to the group. She kneels by the edge of a bog, one knee sinking into it's soft ground, the other foot planted on more firm ground. One hand grasps the long stem of a cattail, the other disappears into the mud as she tries to push herself up. The apron she wears holds the marks of long smears left by her hands, marring the white surface.
Though she is busy struggling to get up and most of her thoughts are directed toward that, her face is turned toward the man in a pleading, longing but very fearful look. Something we cannot see reaches out toward her, drawing her back down the road that lays just on the far side of the picture. The road is made of dirt, though well kept, going off into a place that promises better than the bog. But what, we don't know. But the man is ahead, though barricaded by the creatures of perfection, light and happiness.
Creatures she feel would only shove her back toward the bog, kicking her chest and pushing her lower than she already is. And the man that she feels unworthy to approach, confused about who he really is, yet relentlessly drawn toward him. Longing for him, despite her overwhelming hesitation. If one of the girls were to go and offer a hand to take her to the man, the girl would draw back, becoming entrapped in the bog. Her trust has been long shattered and disillusioned.
Is it possible that the man could take her hand and they could walk down that road together? Or must she choose between the road and the man? Is she brave enough to do anything besides peek from the bulrushes?
I know not how the story ends. Nor will it be as a real painting, forever frozen in one second of a life. I feel sure that the man will leave the flock of butterflies to go after the black sheep. She may not be like the other girls. She may never learn to trust anyone but the man.
But I cannot see her as the awful creature that she perceives herself to be. I feel her hopelessness but know she is not beyond hope. I do not see a blackened, defective misfit. I see a little child who has been shoved into the bog one too many times by someone she trusted.
I cannot hate her and I know the man does not either.
She is her biggest critic. But when she sees herself, hatred melts, compassion is stirred. The girl in the picture doesn't know she is being watched. But when I see her, I cannot hate myself.
Posted by Lindsey at 5:06 PM 0 comments

Freedom

Tonight we ring in a new year.
I'm not making a resolution. A resolution makes me think of a contract that once broken, can never be restored. I'm making instead a New Year's challenge.
My theme for this coming year of 2012 centers around "Freedom." Recently I've become more and more attuned to efforts that work toward abolishing modern-day slavery. Between 12 and 27 million people today are slaves and many of these are forced to work in brothels. Many of the things we buy in stores were made by slaves.
My goal for this year is to further educate myself on which aspects of my life might help contribute to keeping people into slavery - and what I can do to not only stop this practice, but to help free and support the captives themselves.
"Chainless" is a project that I want to start working on. It involves many aspects such as researching which brands and companies make an effort to ensure that their merchandise comes from fair-trading practices. I'm also developing an idea for cutting a CD called "Chainless" that revolve around freedom and raising awareness for the plight of others.
God is making a lot of changes in my personal life as well and I want this year to be about freedom in my own life from sins I struggle with, fears that plague me and anything that is holding me back from living out what I was created to do. So my challenge to myself this year is to explore areas of freedom in all aspects of life.

In Flight

“Gah, she can’t even get a bag of peanuts open,” Darshon remarks.
“She can’t spell either,” Karl grins and jumps onto the bashing author boat of which Darshon is currently captain.
“Oh, hush,” I grin and resist telling the characters in my head out loud to shut their mouths for the sake of the man next to me who can’t see them.
“Who cares about peanuts…” Andrew is glancing out of the plane window, somewhat disturbed. “I can’t even see the ground anymore.”
“Andrew if you won’t get on a boat and Clara won’t get on a plane, and neither of you will touch an airplane, it’s little wonder you end up living on a farm,” I moan.
“Just shut the window,” Tehveor suggests.
“Yeah.” I turn toward Darshon who’s messing with the light buttons ahead. “Andrew’s freaking out and he’s got electricity. Why aren’t you? You’re from Eirlerre.”
One bushy eyebrow rises. “Because I’m from Eirlerre. Eating peanuts in a seat I’m not allowed up from seems a pretty tame past time.”
I smirk. “Unless I decide to make you allergic to peanuts.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Darshon sounds rather dramatic.
“She might,” Karl remarks dryly. “She made me allergic to water.”
“Only in the spoof,” I say.
“Which is currently most of what you write.”
“Now, now. We’re revamping the original story and making you not quite as much of a sobber.”
“Small favors,” Karl mutters.
I turn to Tehveor. “Guess what? I’ve decided to work on the sequel and put “Swing” on the backburner.
“What???” Lila calls.
“Finally,” Darshon raises his hands to beseech Heaven with long-overdue thanks. Then he lowers them to cross. “Actually, I’ll believe that when I see it.”
I hum.
Trey pouts.
“Sorry, kid. Weekend project,” I offer.
“Yeah, well, that’s not fair.” Lila protests. “Tehveor already has a book out. We don’t.”
“Which is why I’m working on the sequel while people still remember who he is.”
“I’ll bet Swing is still produced first,” someone whispers, but when I look back they all look toward the ceiling.
Sometimes authorhood is a lonely place to be. Especially when the characters start ganging up on you.
“Why is the plane rumbling,” Tehveor asks and I finally understand where his mind has been this entire time.
“It’s the wind,” I explain. “Air pockets.”
I don’t say “turbulence” around Andrew but he’s already looking at me like he thinks I think he’s dumb and knows full well that he isn’t. “So the floatation devices are in case the plane falls out of the sky over water?”
“Yeah, pretty much.” I smile at him. “Don’t worry. We’re not going over water.”
“What are you singing?” Erik asks exasperated as I hum the same line over and over.
“Till I Hear you Sing Once More” I answer.
“Would you please sing the rest of the words, instead of those three lines?”
I think I’m offending Erik’s musical taste.
“Can’t. I don’t remember them.” I answer lightly.
“Perhaps you could make some up,” Andrew suggests.
“Or I could just keep humming it,” I answer.
“It is a rather catchy melody,” Andrew admits, looking toward Erik.
Erik folds his arms and readjusts his legs in the small space.
“Did you take your medicine?” I ask.
“Yes, Father…”
Lizzy purses her lips. “Me thinks he’s skipped...”
I grin and glance toward Danny’s family, new to popping into my world and also to being teenagers – at least the young ones.
Danny and Rosie are busy bent over paper on the table in front, packaged peanuts long forgotten.
Danny’s running his thumb over the nose of some passenger they saw in the airport.
“No, it was smoother.”
“It was beaked,” Rosie argues.
Danny grins. “It was not beaked.”
His daughter shoves his hand away and takes the pencil back from his hand. “It was! It was like this!”
She starts drawing a rather realistic beaked nose and Danny chuckles. “No, it was rounder.”
“It was beaked…” Rosie’s grin takes on a mischievous glint and she begins drawing a triangle into the poor man’s profile. “It was just like this…”
“No, it… stop it. Now you’re just being cruel,” Danny wrestles the pencil back. I’m not sure if he’s arguing on the behalf of the man in the picture or his own delicate memory for facial shapes.
I turn away as the plane shifts again. “I’m getting dizzy.”
“That’s because your brain’s too small.” Darshon says in an accent that doesn’t belong to him. “It just kind of bangs around up there.”
“Oh – hush…”
“The retort’s getting really old,” Andrew chuckles lightly. “You should find a new one…”
“So who’s going to be more nervous at landing,” Tehveor asks. “You or Val?”
“Val,” I answer, shifting in the seat, secretly wondering if I’ll be able to walk by the time we get there. It’s halfway through the flight and so far we haven’t been allowed to get up.
“And then we’re going to see Danae,” Lyndsi says behind me. Up until now, I haven’t known she was there but she is and looking quite excited. I wonder if she’s really more interested to see if Landon lives with Danae.
And just so my other characters aren’t left out, I bring in my Roman’s. Malcomb is fascinated with the plane, commenting how many Christians could be transported very fast.
Felix is already discovering that projectiles can be dropped quite effectively from a plane. Suddenly Darshon is there, plotting with him and I regret bringing one of Jess’s characters into this scene.
I wonder how much time has passed and how much longer it will be. I think I’ve dressed warmly enough. It’s been a hot journey.
This morning when I put on my leggings over jeans, I grew a new appreciation for Super Man. Tights under regular clothing just doesn’t seem cool, though it’s not as bad as I thought.
My departing wisdom from my father was, “Remember up there, Yankees tend to be somewhat – abrupt, so don’t take offense.”
I just grinned all over that statement. So far I haven’t found a state quite as friendly as Texas, nor have I ever in my life addressed someone as a Yankee unless it was for the express purpose of teasing both the north and the south.
I’m with Val on that one.
War’s over. None of us were there.
I look out the patch of window and see just a bit of land. I wonder what state we’re flying over. It’s weird to think we’re not in Texas anymore. Weirder to think that when I land, I won’t be in the South.
“And weeks pass. And months pass. Time goes by. Still you don’t walk through the dooooooorrrrr…. Da dee, dee, dee, dee dee dee dee do da….. till I hear you sing once more…”
The sparsely-worded refrain goes through my head again and Erik moans, looking to Erik the Phantom. “This is your fault…”
Phantom Erik shakes his head. “Not mine. It’s not my fault copy write fell out of fashion and some imposter decided to rewrite my story. New York,” He shakes his head in disgust. “As if I would go there.”
“Watch it,” Scarlet growls. “New York is the best place on earth. Help me out, Andrew.”
“Mmmm…” Andrew hesitates. “Remember, Scarlet. We don’t live there at the same time. In mine time, the factory workers are…”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” Scarlet waves off his patient explanation of why New York failed his family’s dreams. “See, Erik? If you don’t like something, you can just change it.”
“Did you learn nothing from that first bag of peanuts??” Darshon asks incredulously.
I move from trying to tear the bag to trying to pry it open, then back to tearing. Come one. Stupid little thing.
This time it tears, as averse to the last time of prying. Tehveor laughs, “She learns a little. I think she cut down her time about a third.”
“She can be taught!” Someone exclaims but again as I try to identify the speaker, they ban together with various innocent looks.
I ignore them and eat my peanuts.

One More Daaay...

Today I woke in Grandma's closet.
Tomorrow I'll wake in Grandma's closet.
The next day, I'll wake in Val's closet.
I have become a closet sleeper. Not to worry. I've discovered I sleep even better in a closet than I do in a bedroom. Too bad my closet isn't big enough for sleeping.
But yeah. Tomorrow morning I'm leaving my beloved Texas and it's 64 degree weather and going to Wisconsin to it's 41 degree weather.
Don't worry. I'm armed with new scarfs from Christmas and some new outfits my parents got for me.
Today I spent packing, teaching my Colorado cousins to swing dance and trying to come up with my writing priorities for the new year. I've decided to put Swing on the back burner as my "weekend project" and turn my focus to "The Captive" which is the sequel to "The Secret of Sentarra" series.
It'll be fun to have a fresh manuscript to figure out the steps to editing and producing - this time hopefully in the proper order. Before I do that though, "Across the Distance" still needs the final read-through and then I'll be learning InDesign and proper page layout.
Then it's off to the proof-readers and plunging into revising "The Captive." It'll be good to write Eirlerre again. Tonight... it's late. And I need to go to bed.
Tomorrow is a traveling day.

Dec. 15

Remember me?
I know, I've fallen behind of blogging.
If it's any consolation, I've fallen behind on nearly everything else too.
Right now, I'm trying for the fourth time to get the unedited clips in no particular order onto a DVD to take Sunday for the footage party.
I have them in order. But in true Lindsey fashion, the program did something and won't let me hear the voices. When I produce the movie - there's still no voices. So I can't edit it at all.
Yet.
I'll figure it out. It'll go on my list of other stuff I could have had finished already if they didn't have to be redone a billion times.
So right now it's the same old story. I'm trying to copy-edit "Across the Distance" (again) before formatting it for kindle (again) and learning the proper way to lay out a page. Swing is right behind that, ready for the final proof read and all the steps above. Then "The Captive" is waiting for a more extensive revamp, making sure all the story gaps are inserted and everything is tied up.
New projects include this book trailer for "Across the Distance," getting a chaotic house ready for Christmas company (where I get to move downstairs into the gutted interior of what the flood destroyed (yay, me!) and then after Christmas I'm going to Valerie's house. God's put Flames on hold for now but that still needs to be done. When I get back from Val's in February, I'm going to have to bite the bullet and find a "real" job. One with a paycheck.
So then I'll have even less time for this whole publishing thing. Quite honestly, I'm getting discouraged. I feel like I've been in a loop for the last year, doing the same thing over and over and over and over and not making any progress. I wonder what my productivity level would be like without the snags, computer crashes, malfunctioning software, and ignorance that just when you thought that book was formatted correctly, you discover there are three different types of dashes in a properly copy-edited book...

I, Margaret

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

So... This is what I do when I'm bored.
I may as well put the story with it. Some got erased but here you are people.

The wooden shingles of the Maclocken estate crunched under Margaret’s boots as she inched along the wall of the second story. Above her, the condensation from the fog dripped from the second story roof. Beside her the wall offered a comforting sense of support. And below her, a steep slope invited fool-hearty travelers to take the fourteen foot drop to the lush grass of the Erish countryside.
It was, however, what lay before her that kept common sense from overriding determination. The shutters on her brother’s window stood open like arms waiting to enfold her. Inside, her father’s conversation with the doctor was obstructed by only the thick tapestry drawn to keep out the light. It was much easier to access than the two inches of sturdy oak that created the door that her mother currently guarded, most likely listening and weeping at the keyhole.
Women were not to be present while men were examined, even if they were siblings and sons. But at the age of fifteen, Margaret was hardly old enough to take any advantages that came with womanhood, so naturally she could not be expected to reside under the consequences of her kind. And even if she was, she had shared a womb with Kethann. She could hardly be expected to stay out of his bedroom while the likelihood of his future was discussed.
Her heart pounded, legs trembling from the messages sent by her mind of their peril if they collapsed and took a plunge from the heights. She pressed her back against the wall, turning one ear toward the opening where low voices murmured.
She could not understand her father’s words, but his tone only increased the drive to discover what no one would confirm. She pressed a finger to the tapestry, inching it slowly forward so there was a small gap for the sound to travel around.
“… cannot handle excitement…. keep things quiet….”
Her teeth grit as she twisted to press her face as close to the cloth as possible, hoping to distinguish shapes between the tight weave.
“It is essential that he does not strain the heart in any way.”
This sentence came clearly but more pressing was the swift steps that carried in her direction. Margaret jerked back, nearly loosing her balance on the roof when the curtain folded in on itself as her father removed the remnant of secrecy and safety.
“Margaret!”
Toryn Maclocken’s grip was accustomed to the steel hilt of the sword and was hardly any less gentle when it wrapped around her arm. She stumbled over the window sill as he hauled her into the safety of her brother’s room.
“When I shut and lock a door, there is a very precise reason for it,” Toryn’s voice stayed low, the way it always did when he was displeased.
Margaret’s eyes traveled from his face, to the doctor packing his bad, to the boy sleeping in the bed.
“If you would simply share with the family about Kethann, there would be no need for locking doors in the first place,” she said. “Is he dying?”
“That depends entirely upon how well he is cared for,” Toryn replied. “If he’s frightened at someone clambering through his window, his heart might very well stop right this moment. You know better.”
He nudged her toward the door, turning the key in the lock. He would shove her out and lock it behind her and then she’d have her mother to face. “You’re late for lessons.”

“Lessons don’t matter!” Margaret pleaded. She was a failure at social graces and had no interest in learning them. She pointed to the boy on the bed. “This matters!”
“There’s nothing you can do about this.” The door opened with her father’s dismissal. “Obey me and go. We’ll talk when you return.”
“Lessons don’t matter!” Margaret pleaded. She was a failure at social graces and had no interest in learning them. She pointed to the boy on the bed. “This matters!”
“There’s nothing you can do about this.” The door opened with her father’s dismissal. “Obey me and go. We’ll talk when you return.
Margaret’s throat worked as she passed her mother to gather her lunch from a servant. The basket banged against her skirt as she stepped into the yard.
It was a short walk from the main house to the training grounds. There a squadron of soldiers parried in the rings. There was something comforting in the noise of iron striking nails into a horse’s hoof, the taunting of the group watching the fighters. The smell of leather and cooking fires.
A few men nodded toward her as she passed, one calling out, “You’re late, lady Margaret. You’d better run!”
“Yes, I am late, Rothonal.” Margaret turned her steps toward the man with a smile.”Which I am sure is why you will forgive me for taking your horse.”
“My horse?” The man’s eyebrows rose. “My horse?”
“Yes,” Margaret reached for the animal’s reins. “You’ve gotten it ready for me, I see. It was very kind. I’m sure you can get another should you require use of a mount.”
“I can, my dear.” The man held the animal steady while she swung astride. “You just make sure you and horse get safely back. I have no desire to be whipped for loosing an animal.”
“I’ll treat him like my own child!” Margaret answered, prying the straps loose from the man’s hand.
She pushed the horse into a trot while Rothanal made a show of quoting a prayer of protection, clasping a fist to his head,
The curls bounced around her shoulders as she kept the horse at a brisk pace that simultaneously energized her and threatened to spill the contents of her basket.
Every last girl had disappeared inside the doorway of Mistress Lavith’s room before she entrusted her steed to a servant’s care. Brushing the creases from her dress, she sucked in a breath as the darkness of the interior swallowed her.
There was an usual amount of movement in the hallway as servants rearranged portraits and scrubbed the boards that lined the bottom of the walls,
Veshath hopped on her cousin, patting the extra seat beside her as Margaret located the room where all eight girls of consequence took their lessons.
“Did you hear?” the girl whispered even before Margaret got close enough to hear anything. “King Dougherah is coming to visit Master Drageth.”
“He’s coming to see my father,” Margaret replied.
Though the king’s interests lay closer to poetry than plotting warfare, his duties often brought him to their estate which served as a basic training ground before the soldiers were moved to the more experienced levels.
“Weeding them out’ her father called it. Deciding which boys to keep and which to send to entertain the king’s court.
Undaunted by her lack of awe, Veshath leaned closer while defeating the purpose by raising her whisper. “He’s bringing his sons!”
Margaret’s heart picked up. She had never formally met Prince Galaphy. Their relationship remained as a peasant who only saw the boy from a distance. But it was the plurality of the words that caught her attention.
She glanced sideways. “Prince Terrant?”
Veshath’s voice squeaked as she nodded. “He’s turning twenty and he’s going to reveal himself as the prince.”
Margaret’s stomach fluttered as the girl grabbed her hand. “Oh, isn’t it exciting? After all these years of guessing which soldier he is. I’ll bet he’s Mathorn.”
Margaret shook her head. “Mathorn is too old.”
“He could have been lying about his age,” Veshath argued. “Just to think we could have been talking to him all these years and never known it. What sport!”
Margaret had often thought of it, trying to guess herself or bribe soldiers to tell her. She’d gotten a few different answers and even had several claim to be the prince.
His age was really all that could give him away, for a man who had lived within the ranks since he was a child, was well able to fit in. Many of the soldiers did not know who he was.
Perhaps her father did, but he was suck a stickler for the secrets kept within the ranks.
Even if Terrant was an ugly, dull toad, it would be a relief to have the mystery cleared up. He couldn’t remain anonymous forever, for even though he wished to be treated as a common soldier, the fact remained that he was a prince.
“When?” she whispered as Lady Lavith entered, armed with a basket of embroidery to torture Margaret.
The woman rose her eyebrows until the room developed the silence required by the teacher. When everyone was all but holding their breathes, the woman said, “Girls. I need your undevided attention. I have a most important introduction for all of you.
Veshath squirmed, feet pressing under the couch as her body went ridged with excitement.
But it was not the prince everyone dreamed of meeting.
It was a girl. She could not be called plain for she was quite pleasant complexion. But if one were called to define which feature lent her beauty, they would be hard pressed for an answer.
Her mouth was small and straight, her eyes brown but not particularity large or any color that made them stand out. Her hair matched her eyes - not light or dark or mixed in with any interesting highlights.
Her clothing, however, immediately drew the eye, for her dress was created a shade of blue that could not be found on any Erish market place. It’s looked as though the sky itself had fallen around her shoulders. Her bodice was tailored tightly around a petite waist that disappeared into a skirt that flared in full folds to the floor. Her hair hung in a dozen braids, that cascaded down her back before they looped again, their tips disappearing back into the gathering at her nape.
It was clear that she was not Erish even before she opened her mouth to butcher their accent and language.
“Girls this is Setta Makiver. She is the daughter of Gharon an ambassador from Kathonia.”
The girl curtsied and said in the simplest and most formal phrase possible. “I am pleased to be here.”
At least, that was what Margaret thought the girl meant to say. What had actually come through the narrow lips was, “I am pleased to be a horse.”
Chuckles and a few smirks rippled through the Erish.
Setta flushed though she didn’t seem to understand her mistake. Her voice was heavily accented, pronouncing her vowels as though they had all been pushed to the front of her mouth and her R’s sounded as though she was spitting instead of being properly rolled. It was a sound that Margaret could not duplicate even when the soldiers who spoke the language of Kathonia had taught her their tongue.
But she ventured to give the girl an answer in the Setta’s native language, butchering the accent and rolling the R’s when she said, “And we are pleased to have you here.”
Relief and interest poured into the girl’s eyes as they flickered to meet Margaret’s.
Several girls scooted forward on their chairs, surveying the two. “What did you tell her?”
Margaret only raised her chin as the teacher motioned the girl to sit and Setta chose the empty spot next to her.
After that, Margaret spent an hour poking her fingers with stitches that Mistress Lavith claimed were entirely too long and the only interesting thing that happened was when the servants dropped a painting in the hallway.

It's all in how you view it.

Once upon a time, I strove to be the perfect Christian. I wore long skirts and modest shirts. I grew my hair out. I regularly became guilty of my music choices and threw out my Broadway soundtracks, my burned CDs and my Irish music that contained a drum. I memorized large portions of scripture. I read pamphlets on the evils of dancing to remind myself why I had to stifle my longing to move to music. I bit back arguments when people called me "sheltered" and "nieve."
I went to the nursing home with my family once a week. I sang hymns at church and anywhere I was asked. I helped with children's programs. I knocked on doors, invited people to VBS, handed out Jesus videos and cookie tins. I left tracks places where people would find them, scolding myself for being too afraid to hand it to someone outright.
Once upon a time, I knew how my life would be. I would graduate high school, perhaps go on to study at a good college so I could teach my own children while they were growing up. When I was about twenty, I would meet a wonderful, Godly man who would marry me and be a strong Spiritual leader. I wouldn't be afraid to have children - and that secret worry that I physically can't have children would be gone. I'd lose my desires for anything besides raising them, cleaning the house and making meals.
That was what good Christian girls did, right?
Once upon a time, I beat myself up for not being this good Christian girl. I didn't really like babies. I was terrified to think of having my own children. I wanted to dance - I wanted to dance so badly, I would cry while watching someone else do what I wanted to. I listened when people told me I couldn't be an actress. In my imagination, I filmed movies. Some I wrote - some other people wrote. I was confidence and pretty and dressed modestly but modernly. I could travel away from my family without feeling homesick. Everyone liked me.
Once upon a time, I lived in my imagination, doing what I wanted to do, while I continued stifling my dreams to fit into the Christian mold.
As it seemed right on schedule, my twentieth birthday came and I began courting a wonderful, Godly boy from my church. He was smart. He was mature. He was responsible. He even wanted to learn to Swing dance and we planned on filming a movie together.
Once upon a time, I sat sobbing in a Church pew as adults yelled at each other. Our church family that had done so much together was splitting. Once upon a time, I stood with my hand on the door of that church, finding the locks changed overnight.
"You locked me out. You can't criticize me for living in the world, when you locked me into it."
I never did get back into that church building.
Nine months after I began courting, I gave up waiting for God to show the boy what he had shown me - that we would never be good as a couple. I called off the courtship - and spent the next few months explaining to the kids at my new church that I didn't tell their friends to leave. I lost my boyfriend. I lost my best friends.
I had my first argument over the break up with some of my other friends.
My perfect Christian life collapsed around me. I had done everything I knew to do. I'd taken up my cross. I'd denied myself.
I didn't understand.
Once upon a time, I locked my heart away. I threw up walls of bitterness. I'd never court again. I'd act in whatever I dang-well pleased. I'd wear pants and dresses that made me feel pretty. I only went to church to please my parents. I'd dance. I'd pursue film. I'd finally stop listening to what people thought I should be doing to serve God.
He was capable of telling me what he DID want me to be doing.
I quit telling people I was a preacher's daughter. I stopped looking at old pictures of people who hurt me beyond what I'd ever been hurt before. I cut my hair. I let my neckline drop and my hemline rise. When people told me I needed to loosen up and live, I'd laugh and think they should have seen me five years ago. But I didn't want them to. I was embarrassed to look back at that girl in the frumpy clothing who lived in a bubble world.
Once upon a time, I began looking on the inside as well as the outside. I dropped any preconceived ideas of what I was supposed to be. I forgave myself for not rushing across the room screaming "baby!" when a bundle of joy was carried in.
God told me if I was willing to wait for a man, he would bring me a deeper love than I ever imagined. I said 'yes' and released the image that the only way a Christian girl can serve God is by marrying and raising her family.
I stopped beating myself up for wanting to show my emotions and my true self. I let myself dance - even in the kitchen when no one was watching and let myself become as a child before God who doesn't suppress her joy.
God commanded me: "Write "Flames" as a screenplay and I will produce it." I said 'yes' and realized I can serve God through the media.
I've learned everything that was shattered was what was holding my back from becoming who God truly wanted me to be. Now he's bringing people back into my life - those who formally shunned me - those whom I began to avoid - and I feel no bitterness, no sorrow, no hatred.
I'm finding that that little girl who lived inside of me and cried for release wasn't a sinful version that must be sacrificed to God's will - but who He made me so that I could fulfill God's will in my life.
Today, I'm free to ask God who He wants me to be. I'm not held back by preconceived ideas of what the Bible says I should be doing. I'm no longer that 'perfect Christian girl.' I'm a girl who doesn't have the answers. I'm a girl who's been hurt and can help others who are hurting. I'm not so worried about offending other Christians by what I say, do, or wear, that I can't focus on what God wants me to say, do, or wear.
When God speaks to me, I don't have to worry about whether or not it is my place to share it in the church. When I turn another year older and there's no boyfriend or family in sight, I don't have to fret that I'm doing something wrong with my life. When I finish my screenplay, when I step onto stage, when I sit in front of a camera, I don't have to wonder if I'm compromising myself.
I'm not.
I am finally being the person I always wanted to be. The person God wants me to be.
The girl I was meant to be.