As a girl, I wrote songs and sold them to my grandmother for a dime. Little did I know that was the beginning of a great love; the love of words and how they played together on the page.

As a tween, I challenged my sister to read more books than me in a summer. I lost at the count of 103 to her 105.

As a youth, my grandmother belonged to three book order clubs so we could read all the same books together.

As an adult, I wrote my first novel in three days only to trash it as drivel never to be returned to.

As a teacher, I met a child who burned in my mind the idea of a story that needed a page to breathe.

As a young mother, I needed a voice to speak the words stifled by a cloak of invisibility.

Finally, my literary heritage wove its fingers around my heart and I began to write. Writing gave me a voice, not just for myself, but for the young girl, the tween, the adult, the teacher, and the young mother.

But even heritage can be snatched back by tragedy. Brain surgery stole the words that once breathed on the pages and I feared I would never get them back. Time and God’s blessing restored them.

Now my voice on the page is for many and myself that of triumph through struggle and pain to recapture the gifts we are given.

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