a guy named Keith

The first recollection I have of Keith Uffman is when my husband, Lee, came home saying that our then seventh grade son, Ariel, who wanted to go out for track, was being coached by a guy named Keith.

We then had the following conversation:

"Keith who?"

"I have no idea."

"Is he a teacher?"

"I don't think so."

"Then he must be somebody's dad."

"I do not know who he is."

This guy named Keith, who stood near the far corner of the track wearing a big hat, shouting out times to track kids who were trying to run faster, remained a mystery until we heard that his last name was Uffman. The only other person we knew by that name was Mary Helen so by default he had to be her husband.

One day Lee noticed Keith dropping off his daughter for cross county training at Hagan Stone Park--I KNEW he had to be somebody's dad--and as both men are runners, they ran together. In the course of their conversation Keith would tell Lee that when he wasn't coaching middle school track, he was pastoring a church--Alamance Presbyterian Church. But only when asked directly did Keith share with Lee his level of education.

"So what do I call you?" Lee asked.  "Reverend? Doctor? Coach?"

"Call me Keith," was his answer.

(We would sometimes refer to him by some variation of the Reverend Doctor Coach Mr. Uffman in the privacy of our own home, but to his face we called him Keith.)

Keith invited us to come to church. Lee invited Keith to come to our oldest son's high school graduation party at our home. We came to Alamance; loved the music, the preaching and the welcome. Keith showed up at our party, politely engaging my parents in conversation, and getting to know so much about us.

As our sons have gone through school, Keith coached Ariel and Joel for track, and Mary Helen taught and coached them in soccer, earning both of the Uffmans a place of honor in our family, reserved for anyone who helps us raise our boys well.

Seven years ago Keith could have introduced himself to us as the Reverend Dr. Uffman, as he has earned that right, but as he explained it to Lee, a title can be a barrier, a division between people, and not necessarily the best way to get to know someone. Though we were not sure what our church affiliation would be, it seemed clear from the start that we had found a friend.

Keith often chooses not to wear a traditional Presbyterian robe, which could further separate himself from the body of Christ. He not only invites ALL of God's children to the table of the Lord to receive communion, but lives out this ecumenical invitation in his studies, in dialogue with interfaith leaders, and in counseling those in need--with a generous portion of compassion and a bit of humor thrown in. It has been up to Keith to remind us that we are all beloved children of God. It is up to God to sort out the rest.

It would take me a year of investigating the Presbyterian faith, including reading the Book of Order, and other great books and authors Keith has continued to recommend, before I was willing to join this church. Keith kept telling me, "Only God can bind your conscience," whatever that means. Thanks to Keith's patient endurance of my endless questioning, I, too, could become a Presbyterian.

When I recently thanked Keith for sharing his pulpit with me so I could read what I had written to the congregation, he was quick to point out that it was never his pulpit, but God's pulpit. It is not his church, but a church in which the Spirit of the Lord dwells.

This is a testament of the character of the man who has been in leadership here for the past 18 years: a quiet man with a brilliant mind, gentle spirit and sparkling wit; a humble minister of the Word who has faithfully yielded his life to serve God and all of us. A guy named Keith.

mental

Words of inspiration on Facebook sometimes ring true to me and I will post them on my wall with the hope that someone else will be able to relate to the sentiment as I do. It is a subtle way of letting others know what I like and who I am.

The other day I came across a post that I felt completely opposed to--so much so that I need to write a rebuttal of sorts just to get it out of my system.

The original post, with a picture of a runner in the background, is as follows:

6 Things Mentally Strong People Do

1.  They move on. They don't waste time feeling sorry for themselves.
2.  They embrace change. They welcome challenges.
3.  They stay happy. They don't waste energy on things they can't control.
4.  They are kind, fair and unafraid to speak up.
5.  They are willing to take calculated risks.
6.  They celebrate other people's success. They don't resent that success.


1. Mentally strong people move on and do not feel sorry for themselves.

I don't know about you but I have had the misfortune of having some of these people cross my path. Moving on is often translated to mean refusing to work through the issues. A wall goes up when questions are asked. No, they do not waste time feeling sorry for themselves or anyone else, which does not make them selfless or mentally strong, but just the opposite. Chances are, they may even be responsible for the problem, but will move on anyway leaving behind a mess for others to clean up.

2. Embracing change and welcoming challenges.

This sounds amazing, doesn't it. Being a real change agent. When the changes are promotions, more money, better stuff, good things happening--sure. Who welcomes the challenge of adjusting to the diagnosis of a life-altering illness? Loss of job? Loss of home? Loss of income? Loss of a loved one? I've known so-called mentally strong people fall apart in the midst of something I would consider relatively minor. Maybe those who say they embrace change have not really had to.

3. Staying happy and not wasting energy on things they cannot control are two very different ideas.

People who claim to be happy all the time are not. Their forced smiles, strained voices and mannerisms are carefully choreographed to avoid dealing with how they really feel. Maybe they are forcing themselves to suck it up because the change they said they would embrace was not exactly what they had in mind. They cannot feel sorry for themselves because they are mentally strong. Therefore, they present themselves in ways that make them appear as believable as cartoon characters.

4. Kind, fair, unafraid to speak up.

It has not been my experience that this sort of mentally strong person is kind. Of course when I'm thinking of kindness, I'm thinking of empathy. In order to have empathy for another human being, one has to enter into that person's pain, something many people are unwilling or unable to do. Fairness would amount to treating each person the same as the next, or in this case, not engaging deeply with anyone. Afraid to speak up? Oh no, this person will tell you to embrace change and move on!

5. Calculated risks.

If one is not going to waste energy on things he or she cannot control, how can there be any time devoted for planning a calculated risk? Weren't we just embracing whatever happens, come what may? Mentally strong people will risk what they can control to avoid appearing weak like the sappy people whose very act of expressing emotion may enable others to release their pent up emotion. Putting up the brave front does not ultimately make one stronger. Internalizing feelings backfires in the end.

6. Celebrating the success of others.

Celebrating someone else requires the willingness to enter into that person's life for a few minutes. I can celebrate someone's good fortune that far outweighs mine. Most people I know have better stuff and more money than I do. Their houses are bigger, their vacations more exciting, and I celebrate their happiness--especially when they do not feel guilty for their many blessings. I can feel the sentiment of someone who is truly celebrating me versus someone who is trying to say and do the right thing.

The picture on the inspirational poster is of a runner and if this is the lens in which these six items are seen, it makes a big difference. Being mentally tough is a big part of running as it requires that sort of strength for runners to keep moving on and not feeling sorry for themselves even though they may want to rest. They challenge themselves to run further and faster and embrace whatever is on the path ahead. They have to devote all of their energy to running and focus on remaining positive, not worrying about what may be around the next corner. They possess a kindness, fairness and willingness to speak up to tell someone they are about to pass them. These are common courtesies of all runners. They take calculated risks and keep on going. And at the finish line all are celebrated for having achieved the goal of finishing, regardless of times, needed breaks, injuries or anything else.

I would like to say that running and life are exactly the same, and it would actually be easier if they were, but they are not. There are reasons we each make the choices that we do--reasons that may not make sense to someone who has not experienced them.

We all move on at different speeds. It is hard to question what is going on in one's inner life. What resembles self-absorption may in fact be the process of surrendering it all to God.

Change will come whether we embrace it or not. It is in the daily rhythms of life we figure out how to adapt. When I am ready to accept whatever is before me, I believe I will be shown how.

If I live my life according to the way of Jesus, I let him forge my path. Happiness is circumstantial and fleeting. Joy, even in the midst of terrible sorrow, remains.

I am not afraid to speak up. My challenge has been to find someone who will listen. It is not kind or fair to ignore someone with a quieter presence. We all have something to say.

I take a calculated risk every time I write what is truly on my heart. I risk offending those I wish to bless. I risk having what I believe dismissed by those who cannot or will not try to understand.

Rejoice with those who rejoice; weep with those who weep. That has been my biblical motto for many years. When we can enter into the lives of each other, we can learn to walk together--and even run!

We will someday each cross the ultimate finish line with those who have gone before cheering us on. No more definitions of what it means to be mentally strong. No more sadness. No more change. No more control issues or risk-taking. All tears will be wiped away.

And all the people said amen.

right now

An after-holiday hush has settled over the house as I look around, contemplating what came before, and what comes next.

Behind me, in my work area, is a rather large unruly pile of unsold pillows and fabric, next to the clothing rack containing three new items I was able to purchase for seventy percent off from a failed department store. Below are bins of fabric scraps, fiberfill for stuffing pillows, and next to the closet is a rather large wicker basket with partial bolts of cloth along with wallpaper and wrapping paper. A small table is covered with the remnants of a put-together shelving unit that I have replaced with a better system, though having no idea yet where to place all of the bits and pieces it contains.

Cut out are the ornaments that never got made; garlands I never stitched the words "merry and bright" on. My ideas always overwhelm my schedule. Time is a strict task master. Once the deadline for a seasonal item has passed, it will not come around again for another year. Well-meaning friends suggest that I begin to work on these items sooner. They are right, though my natural proclivity is to procrastinate.

Possibilities loom. A gift card was spent in the ordering of yet another shelving system for the other wall. Floor to ceiling on every side will the raw materials await a spark of creativity that will render them beautiful. Placed in their baskets and jars will buttons, thread, wire and all miscellaneous materials dwell until they are called forth. My mind spins. So much work ahead. So many hours to disappear in the process of creating. I look forward to falling back down the rabbit hole and losing myself in my own wonderland.

It is here that I pause.

As I warm my hands on a snowman mug of hot coffee, I savor this moment. Right here. Right now.

Looking back is never wise for me unless I am recalling a lesson I learned so I do not repeat it, or to remind myself that I am in fact still loved by God. I will want to account for the choices I have made to decide whether to head in a different direction. I will need to take a good long look at how things went before starting something new.

Anticipating the future often causes me more stress than it is worth as I do not possess a natural optimism. I often do not expect things to turn out well which probably has more to do with looking back than it does in moving forward. We tell ourselves not to have expectations. I still wonder how that works as I expect so many things both great and small on any given day.

The challenge as ever is simply to BE. Be careful. Be creative. Be happy. Be at peace. Be well. Be yourself. Be still.

A look behind. A glance forward. A steady gaze out my window at the albino squirrels chasing each other around a tree. Grateful to be here, I wait for inspiration to awaken.

covenant child

A baby's first birthday party: an effort by tired adults to commemorate their first year of parenthood. An exercise of celebratory futility as the baby will never remember it and only the true friends and family will even care. A reason to take lots of pictures, while the child will be more interested in what the gifts were wrapped in than the gifts themselves.

Given this attitude, the day I was handed an invitation to the first birthday party of one of my infant preschool students, I immediately dismissed it. Too tired, too busy--I didn't need to work hard to come up with persuading arguments as to why it would be a waste of my time.

Intrigued as I was by the line on the invitation that identified this party as a traditional Korean Dol party, I did not take the time to google it. It then occurred to me one day prior to the RSVP deadline that perhaps the families of these parents would not be able to attend as they may live in Korea, so I figured I would make the effort to show up with the plan of a quick departure.

Though I am usually the only redhead in most of the rooms I walk into, it felt different this time, being one of the few non-Asian guests. Not awkward, but special. I was being included into something far more significant than a baby's birthday party.

What I did not know was that the first birthday for a Korean child is a momentous occasion and can be compared to a Jewish bris without the . . . um . . . unfortunate part, or even a baby baptism or dedication.

A pastor from their Korean church led the prayer in Korean, translating it back into English for the benefit of the few. Bible passages from the book of Luke were read--the part about Simeon holding baby Jesus for the first time, saying that his eyes had seen salvation. "A light to bring revelation to the Gentiles, and the glory of Your people Israel," Simeon spoke to God. A covenant child. And this Korean baby boy presented to all those whom had come to bless him was their covenant child. Hope for the future.

Prayers in various languages, perhaps even the tongues of angels, filled the room as we all stood with hands outstretched toward this baby boy. His parents' faces beamed as they stood holding him behind a table decked out with an elaborate fruit arrangement and beautiful cake. The large screen behind them played the recorded first year of his life.

While not intending to impress the people at my table with my chopstick eating skills as we enjoyed an Asian buffet, I knowingly used them at the risk of making a fool of myself in the presence of those who had developed far better skills eating with these sharpened sticks than I would ever have. We would eventually walk back over to the birthday cake table and sing happy birthday. Fortunately the Korean version seemed to match the English syllables, as it did not occur to me that we would be singing even this song differently.

The baby, then dressed in traditional ceremonial Korean attire, was placed at one end of a cloth spread on the floor in the middle of the room. On the other end objects including a judge's gavel, stethoscope, a dollar bill, small basketball, a director's wand, and a pencil were placed. It was the baby's job to crawl toward whatever item he was most attracted to, thereby symbolizing what his life may become. Though his hand touched the stethoscope first, as a couple of women standing near me pointed out, the baby reached out for the ball, perhaps the most familiar of the possible choices.

Celebrating the birth of a baby: so seemingly insignificant and yet what brought the shepherds, the wise men, and anyone else who could make it to a nondescript stable out in the middle of nowhere. A baby whose needs to be held, fed and comforted would far outweigh anything he could offer. A tiny life brought into this world by divine intervention to do great things, as the prophecy had proclaimed.

For unto us a Child is born,
Unto us a Son is given;
And the government will be upon His shoulder.
And His name will be called
Wonderful, Counselor,
Mighty God,
Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.
[Isaiah 9:6]

A miracle. Brand-new. Filled with possibilities. A covenant child.

WWJD

"What would Jesus do?" is a thought-provoking question tossed about in the last decade or so.  WWJD

The story of how Jesus instructed accusers without sin to cast the first stone at the woman caught in adultery, then wrote in the sand and told her to go away and sin no more, is the type of event that comes to mind when I ponder this question. WWJD--he would remind us that we have ALL sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.

While trying to emphasize to children Jesus' sinless nature, a young boy insisted that Jesus did in fact also fall short of God's glory by expressing anger in the temple and turning over the tables. Apparently this child had been taught that to be angry is a sin, even though it is written that we are allowed to be angry as long as we sin not.

In the book of Proverbs, chapter 6, verses 16 through 19, it is not exactly about anger but a listing of what the Lord hates. Hate is a strong word, abomination equally difficult to accept. And yet, there it is. WWJD

Considering all that seems wrong with the world, I find the list of merely seven traits unsettling in their brevity when sin can take so many turns along its ill-fated way.

16 These six things the Lord hates, Yes, seven are an abomination to Him:

17 A proud look,

     A lying tongue,

    Hands that shed innocent blood,

Having a high opinion of oneself, or being prideful, can lead to many problems; of course, low self-esteem leads to many others. Projecting a haughty demeanor is nothing to be proud of. WWJD--he wants us to know we are all his beloved children.

Telling the truth is sometimes not even encouraged, especially among those who were raised to think that if one cannot say anything nice, one had better not say anything at all. WWJD--he knows us and loves us anyway.

Shedding innocent blood is often interpreted as abortion or going to war, situations that may or may not be preventable. If committing murder in one's heart is as evil as its literal alternative, we may all be guilty. WWJD--he creates in us a clean heart and renews a right spirit.

18 A heart that devises wicked plans,

     Feet that are swift in running to evil,

Premeditated acts of hatred or revenge often backfire. Wanting to give back in kind what one has received will sometimes result in the realization that neither one is doing the right thing. WWJD--he directs one to go to the offended before offering a gift at the altar, and ask forgiveness.

It does not take any time at all to get into trouble. Running to evil is not much of a challenge. So many possibilities; so little time. WWJD--he remains a light in the darkness to brighten our path that will lead us back in the direction he would have us to walk.

19 A false witness who speaks lies,

     And one who sows discord among brethren.

Being a false witness can ruin someone's life either by libel or slander, even though these are hardly chargeable offenses any more. Our word is our bond; our reputation precedes us. Once these are taken away by another's behavior or words, our livelihood hangs in the balance. WWJD--he restores the years that the locusts have eaten, locusts with "bless-your-heart" dripping like honey from their lips.

And last but not least, sowing discord among the brethren--the final abominable act. Just because the Lord sees this particular offense as an abomination does not make it any less prevalent on a Sunday morning. Sowing weeds into a garden would be considered foolish as it makes reaping the harvest more difficult than necessary. Doing the work of the church, the work we are commanded as the arms and feet of Jesus to do, is thwarted when so much time must be spent pulling out that which strangles what is good and noble. WWJD--he gives us his peace, not the peace the world gives: conditional at best and unattainable at worst, but the peace that creates calm in the midst of people who are not. He tells us to love one another as he loves, giving as he gave. Apart from him we can do none of this.

Loving each other is our highest duty, the most important commandment. WWJD--he opens his arms wide for those seeking healing for their hearts--broken by what the Lord hates.

the futility of hope

I do not think anyone who really knows me would ever mistake me for a glass-half-full type of girl.

But every so often I reserve that little bit of hope for something good; a fairy tale ending even though I have told myself a million times not to trust in such foolishness. In spite of what my logical mind tells me, I really do want to click together the heels of some imaginary ruby slippers and be transported to a happier place, knowing all the while I may very well remain in the clutches of wickedness.

I am not a stranger to the duality of God. The idea that Jesus had to die so that I may live forever is not lost on me. Losing one's life to save it. Giving in order to receive. It sometimes leaves me gasping for air as I try to figure out how to live without ever completely falling apart. How I am to have hope knowing that around the next bend absolute tragedy is not only waiting for me, but allowed to happen, becomes an unanswered question I carry around with me. A well-meaning person will then tell me that it all works together for my good. And that I am supposed to be grateful for the valuable lessons this hardship is going out of its way to teach me. With a forced smile, I will pretend to agree, all the while knowing that life is unfair. Everyone knows this.

Sometimes having hope at all seems to be a wasted effort.

It always begins the same way--these situations I find myself in that require me to have hope. I wonder if I am headed in the right direction or am pursuing a worthwhile goal. I make attempts to progress toward this new something and even though I should know better, I try to ignore the potential pitfalls. Maybe THIS time, I tell myself.

Maybe this time the next person whom I call friend will not abandon me. Maybe this next group of people are the ones we will grow old with. Maybe we will learn to trust each other within a faith community, working alongside each other to accomplish something worthwhile. Maybe an apology will be forthcoming and hearts that were once cold and hard will soften enough to make room for reconciliation. Maybe my own heart will not be completely shattered this time.

But I never know what will happen. I am not the one writing the script for an ever-changing cast of characters. I have to choose whether to engage in the life before me or to withdraw from it.

There was a time several years ago when I wondered why I should continue to go to church when I could worship God just fine on my own while walking through the woods or sitting in quiet reflection alone. I could, in fact, often worship better this way. I risked losing a sense of peace every time I walked into a house of worship and was met at the door with an endless list of needs existing in the hearts of all those in the seats. Expectations to participate would overwhelm me as I tried to navigate my way to the altar where I longed to be the kind of person who would sit at the feet of Jesus and learn of him without having all of the busyness cloud my vision.

I did not think I could go through it again: becoming a member of some new family of believers and trying to figure out what role I would play this time; deciding which parts of my story I was willing to tell. Maybe this time . . . .

A sermon about why one needs to go to church is inevitable and as I braced myself for the not-forsaking-the-fellowship part, I received a different message. Instead of something that sounded like a required directive, what I heard felt more like an invitation to a party; a celebration of life. I wasn't being handed a list of do's and don'ts, but was walking through an open door into a more spacious place in which I could find refuge and put down my guard for a few minutes. I could get back in touch with my early spiritual development and find healing. I would look at the stained glass depiction of the life of Jesus with new eyes. And light a candle for those in need, including myself.

Once a need is established, there is an opportunity for hope. If I say I have no need, I lie. But to admit to having a need is to risk not ever having that need met. I had been told that by focusing on the needs of others, my own needs would be satisfied. I wish it worked that way. I would, however, have to do the hard work that is required in seeking healing--not so I could then lead an isolated life, but so I would have something more to offer this community in which I had found myself. Little by little I would be offered new doors to walk through and more hands to hold. Restoration is a beautiful thing.

This time it will be different, I tell myself. This time. But people are still people; unrepentant and unyielding. Promises get broken along with fellowship that once seemed so long-lasting. Some of those previously open doors start to close while others are slammed shut. I see the smugness on the faces of those in my direct line of vision while sitting in a choir loft, another place I never thought I would be. I look to the pews where people I thought I knew used to sit. I consider how to go on from here.

Life happens. We move on for different reasons, but we all have to keep moving. There is no real stillness, at least not in the way I long for it. I am told that comes later, in the eternity that awaits us after this life of failed hope has ended. We will then join hands around an unimaginably large table and prepare to partake of the feast that will be offered to us. Once it begins, there will be no lack of sustenance and all will be fed. And no one will have to rush off to anything else or ever say good-bye. We will all be together. We will no longer need to hope for love, for Love will have found us.

art versus craft

Art: the expression or application of human creative skill and imagination, typically in a visual form such as painting or sculpture, producing works to be appreciated primarily for their beauty or emotional power.

Craft: an activity involving skill in making things by hand.

Even the definition could persuade one to believe that art is superior to craft. Art is perhaps for those who have developed a taste for the finer things in life. Art is for the sophisticated. Art requires great training to produce it and to interpret its nuanced meanings. It is not common or meant to be accessible to all.

Craft, on the other hand, is for everyone apparently and can be produced by everyone as well. It is usually a three-dimensional object possibly having a useful quality that far outweighs its beauty. It is not one of a kind. It is not special. It is not of great value or worth. And lately I have felt very much a part of this lesser category.

Flash back to a summer day in the year 2006 where I am out walking and having one of my conversations with God. I had just quit my job, having spent the previous five years teaching 5-year-olds at a preschool, wondering what in the world I was doing teaching preschool. Or teaching anything. I was supposed to be a writer. What in the world had happened to me?

So as I'm nearing the street to my house this overwhelming thought forces its way into my mind: make garlands. This was worse than trying to be a teacher because as much as I struggled trying to figure out how to be a teacher, or more specifically, how to be around teachers and work with them, I had no idea what it meant for me to make garlands. And how was making anything going to help me be a writer?  

But then I remembered the story I had written about an old woman making stars with hearts in the middle of them and I decided to follow the instructions of my own writing and made a star just like I had written it into that woman's life. I then made the stars smaller and made hearts with stars in the middle of them and after figuring out the details, produced a garland. I then made another with tiny trees, and cut up an old blanket to make angels. After my application was accepted at the local farmers' market, I set up shop and sold garlands.

I sold boxes and boxes of garlands! I attached the story I had written and soon it had become a gift for many to give and a way for people who were looking for something unique to decorate their homes with handmade art. Or was it a craft? I had not used someone else's idea or pattern but had created my own. I had not copied anyone's design. I was the author of the story that described the ornaments from which these garlands were made. I was the sole creator, the artist.

For years I would be referred to as a crafter and because of the farmer, baker, or crafter designation at the market; I was fine with that. I never compared myself with those who had studied fine arts or had degrees in art. I had been sewing since I was ten years old and learned from my mother. She also taught me to do embroidery and we spent many cold Michigan winters doing crafts inside our warm home. But crafts were usually kits in which we followed instructions and made something like the picture on the box, sort of a paint-by-number type of activity.

But that never satisfied me. I wanted to turn shoe boxes into doll house rooms furnished with empty spools from thread for chairs, cardboard tables, matchbox beds with tiny cloth blankets, and curtains for the windows. I would take scraps of paper and cloth to make whatever I wanted. I would also design clothing for the paper dolls since I would get immediately bored with the small selection available with their perforated edges. I would draw more, make more, create something new and different. I would then write stories so that these paper dolls could do more than just stand around on their tiny cardboard stands. They could live their lives according to my scripts!

Somehow I reasoned that journalism was the course of study I should take since majoring in English meant I would have to be a teacher and that was the one career I never wanted to have. Settling to tell someone else's story seemed to be a good plan though it never really materialized in the way I thought it should. And I was left with the dream of writing stories, while collecting meager paychecks from dead-end jobs.

Still, I did not call myself a writer or an artist for a very long time. When one says she is a writer, the very first question one is asked is: what do you write? When there is no good answer, it is best not to say it. At least by calling myself an artist I could leave it up to the person looking at what I made to decide whether or not it could be called art.  

And so it has gone, for the past eight years.

Recently I found out about an arts and crafts cooperative calling itself a gallery and looking for guest artists to rent shelf space. When my application was accepted I felt like I had become successful as an artist. Being in a gallery would give what I made more value and worth than it would otherwise have. I could tell my friends that my ART was in a GALLERY. No more would I have to say that I was a crafter.

But business has been slow and whether I am an artist or a crafter, I will not likely break even for the first time since I started selling my wares. Life at the farmers' market is not much better. Neither place has gone out of their way to photograph or advertise my work and there remains that nagging voice inside my head repeating the same thing it has said to me ever since I was a child: you are a writer. Write.

I do write. I am writing now. I write prayers for my church. I think about self-publishing quite often. I wonder how I could incorporate my art with my writing. And how I can accomplish all of this in the midst of my part-time job back at the preschool where I now feel that each day spent with a baby is more like an immeasurable gift from God, than a waste of my life.  

I have reached that certain age when I no longer need to prove myself, even though I still sometimes fall into that ditch of approval-seeking behavior. Whether or not I have been slighted by those around me in reference to my work need not worry me. I know who I am.

I am a writer.