I’ll Take an “E” Please – Part 2

I am sharing my story with you. The following was originally written as an academic paper however, it captures my love of reading and how God shaped my life during some very difficult times. While some of the content has been changed for the purposes of a blog post I have left the citations in tact in order to preserve the integrity of an academic piece. There is hope, there is always hope and we serve a good God, a good and gracious God. As I have mentioned in previous posts I did not have the sunniests of childhoods however, I do have wonderful and lasting relationships with both of my parents and their respective spouses. I wanted to introduce you to me… who I am. Blessings.   Click HERE to read “Anne Saves the Day – Part 1”

There would be days when escape was not possible once I entered the house.  Days when my father’s voice would boom with disappointment over the chores not done, the dishes overflowing in the sink, the counters left sticky from breakfast.  A colourful litany of expletives would run foul from his mouth questioning why I needed to be exactly like her, stupid, good for nothing her.  When this oppression loomed heavy in the house I would, in my little girl ways, attempt to make him happy: fix him coffee, pour him a drink, wipe the counters clean and sometimes that would be enough to satisfy the monster that slept just beneath surface of his rage.  Sometimes.  

And on some days when I entered the house the muted noise from the television would greet me, my father lying on the couch with a drink in hand, barely noticing that I had walked through the door.  Without hesitation and questions I would scamper up the stairs, to my bedroom and close the door quick, afraid that the ugly might follow me.  I would close the door tight and in that room magic would begin.  I would open a book, dive in and allow the characters to speak to me.  Characters that held promise and hope. The Boxcar Children,  Aslan of Narnia, and The Famous Five – these stories, like Anne of Green Gables, would make me forget the chaotic and shaky existence that was my life (Bushardt & Taylor, 2011, p. 14).  Stories became my playground and new words would be tried on like new clothes. I was so afraid to give my anger and hurt a voice so I  bled blue and black ink in countless journals and on pages hoarded from the backs of half filled school notebooks.  My room became my wonderland of imagination, a foundation to paint pictures and empower my mind (Stoodt-Hill and Amspaugh-Corson, 2001, p. 8).   I would sleep easy on those nights, visions of words dancing on pages, filling my head with notions and dreams that I dared not speak out loud.  I would sleep well on those nights knowing that I bore no marks of fury and rage that would need to be covered in the morning.  I would sleep well on those nights because the very next day Anne would be waiting.

Chairs scrape against the floor and I am shaken out of my memory with the laughter and conversation of colleagues revelling in the end of a long day. The clock reads 4:30.   I gather my note book, the one with the Es decorating line after line and head back to my office and I shake my head in wonder at how far I have come.  How time and maturity have blossomed into wisdom and how my love of words has not changed.  Instead of scratching in journals I tap on keys and books are still my route to joy.  I still use words to drown out the whisper of doubt when my fears come haunting.    I shut down my computer and just to the right of my screen I see it there like a landmark on the map of this crazy life.  A quotation that I scratched once in a childhood journal, a quote that I did not understand at the time but over the years has kindled a fire that hope was not lost and that words could heal. I smile as I turn off the lights and whisper to myself,

“All precious things discovered late
To those that seek them issue forth,
For Love in sequel works with Fate,
And draws the veil from hidden worth” (Tennyson, 1842)
 

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