There is something about the rain, the putter-patter on the roof and the click-clack on our old, out-dated metal air-conditioner, that makes me want to write. It's soothing and pulling and when my fingers touch keys and begin to move, it feels more like a calling, a need.
I've been thinking a lot lately about my history. Not my family history, not how my great-grandfather met my great-grandmother, or how my mother and father came to realize they were pregnant with me, but my own personal history: the places I've been and the things I've overcome and how they've made me the person that I am today. My testimony with God at the center at it all because without His amazing grace, I don't know who or where I would be today.
I was going through some notebooks yesterday and found a small note, scrawled in almost ineligible, chicken-scratch type of writing, from a boy who thought he loved me, and I him, and the words there were so convincing. Had someone whom did not know our history found and read that note, they could be fooled into believing that it was the product of a great, never-ending love. Only, when I read the name signed at the bottom, I had to think back and remember, because I had long since forgot. There was no true love there, only a girl who was desperate to feel needed and loved and a boy who was completely wrong for her.
It seemed so long ago, and as I sat there looking over those pen-strokes, I had to pinch myself to believe that the same girl who read and believed those words so many years ago was the same girl reading it today. It's amazing how God can shape a person, stretching and molding and buffing out the imperfections, in such a short amount of time. One day a young, broken little girl, searching for love in any place she could find it, and the next, a wife and mother who knows that she has found the most perfect love in the world.