On the Riverbank

I created this website/blog on September 2nd of 2021. The following day I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. Instead of sharing the existence of this site I kept it to myself. I wrote posts here and there, never sharing. An outlet, a place to word vomit without sensor. An attempt at getting back to writing, which looked a lot like a fish flopping around on the riverbank desperately trying to get back to the water.

I feel like I have tried and stopped, tried and stopped, and tried and stopped again. So much so that I'm afraid to even say that I'm writing again. What if this new found muse is fleeting? What if fear takes hold again? What if I let down any possible readers, simply because nothing fruitful ever emerges? What if my damaged heart can't take the critics? All of these "what if's" are preventing that scared fish from returning to the water, each one an obstacle in the way of success.

How is it, that I let them hold me back time and time again? How is it, one person's hurtful words drown out the praise of another? In the book, Lady Jane Disappears by Joanna Davidson Politano, I felt a certain kinship to the character Aurelie Harcourt. I highly recommend this author, by the way. The ending of the book was like a punch to the gut for me. She is telling her love interest that she will no longer write novels. He tells her that he cannot allow that. She will cease to be who she is. Then he asks her, "Do you realize what a tool you've been given to reach people, to impact them with truth they desperately need?"

Do you know how many times words very similar to what Joanna wrote there have been directed at me? Do you know how many more times I've brushed them aside, not believing or grasping the depth of them? I will admit, my faith in myself is sorely lacking. I began writing as a child, as an outlet. I wrote little poems, mostly. I once wrote one verse about being grounded and my mother found it absolutely hilarious. I wish I had a copy or could remember what I wrote. I'd share it with you if I did. I feel that way about many of my past writings, wish I could recall them or still had them.

What happened to them? I wish I knew. Lost among moves and whatnot I assume. My favorite classes in school were creative writing or any class that allowed me the freedom to write. I liked English to an extent. I love books. I love to read and write, but grammar, punctation and spelling are annoyances to me. Sounds contradictory, does it not? I'd say dictionary.com and I are best friends. The thing is I just write. I don't know if I'm putting the comma where it actually goes, nor do I want to stress myself out over it. So, I simply write and pray I did it correctly.

I did win several awards during my school years for writing and I received encouragement from teachers, especially one librarian, Mrs. Dyson. She pushed and prodded me to write and write. She was constantly having me submit my work to little contests and the like. I've never forgotten her, though she is long gone by now.

When I was a teenager, I wrote a letter. To this day I call it, Linda's Lost Letter. I do not have it. No copy of it. No idea what happened to it or where it went. I was living with my grandparents at the time. My grandpa was a preacher and my grandma the most amazing woman I've ever known. Linda was a real person and a friend of my mother's. Mom and I received word that Linda was dying of aids. We made a quick trip to visit her and I can still see the skeleton of a her laying in the bed. She no longer looked like the Linda I remembered. How she was still alive, I do not know, but she did pass shortly after our visit.

The image of her left a deep impression upon me and when we returned I wrote her a letter. I meant to mail it and I forgot. My grandpa found it and he read it. I had never felt as if I were in trouble for writing something before and I wasn't necessarily in trouble for writing it, but my grandpa was greatly disappointed in me for forgetting to mail it. By the time he'd found it, Linda was gone. He informed me that, that letter could have brought her great comfort in her final days and that I should have posted it straight away. That I have a gift with words. I guess you could say I was reprimanded for not sharing my words. I'd not seen my grandpa so flustered over something before.

Oh, how I wish I had that letter. How I wish I knew what I said that my grandpa found so impactful and comforting. From that moment grandpa encouraged my writing, joining the ranks of mom and several teachers. Later in life, I attempted several writing courses but never really found my place. Still, I wrote, never abandoning my outlet. Sometimes I shared things I'd written and would be told again and again, "You have a way with words".

Eventually, I thought, well they can't all be wrong. So I dove in, the sink or swim method. I thought I had a mentor and I was wrong. The encouragement and help I needed were not there. In the end, I found myself crushed, discouraged, and heartbroken. It was an educational experience but not the type I'd expected. It was a hard lesson learned. When you login to a meeting and hear yourself being talked about... When you are told you can't write that and your heart lurches at the thought of not including the scripture you desired, among other things, well you should know something is amiss.

I ignored the whispers of, most likely the Holy Spirit, who was attempting to show me and guide me. I wanted so badly to be included, to be a published author. I pushed the little pauses of my soul aside and pushed forward. Then like a caught fish, I was painfully hooked and tossed upon the dry riverbank, gasping for breath. For the first time since I was eight years old, I stopped writing. Not one word was penned by my hands. Not in my journals, not online. It was as if the words that once flowed like a river had dried up and vanished.

Finally, on September 2nd, 2021, I thought I was ready to try again. The following day my world came crashing down around me. I will not say that I didn't write, because I did. It however, was very sporadic and nothing meant for anyone other than myself. If ever an outlet was needed, it was then and most often at three a.m. I tried revamping a few things and sharing my cancer story as I went, but even that fizzled. It was like tip-toeing out to see if the water is too cold for swimming, and jerking your toe back from the biting coolness.

I began writing again, towards the end of last year; a personal project. Then I began writing letters. Ideas began to form and flow once again, the current of them faster than my fingers upon this keyboard. Then one day, I wrote a little snippet of something that was upon my heart. Let me share with you my Mother's response to it. You can read it or listen to her voice. I was able to save this most special and precious bit of encouragement. When the writing days are dark, it is my hope that pulling it out will shine a light of encouragement on me and push me to preserver.

"Wow! I don't know what you should do with that either, but you need to publish it, somewhere. People need to read it. That was impactful. You are so good with your words on paper Tonya. You have such a gift. Oh, dear God in Heaven. You are gifted. Did you know that? That is beautiful and impactful and true. Maybe, and I don't know if you could keep up with it or not and I wouldn't be much help in writing because I can't write like that. But you know these pages people create, I follow some of them, maybe you could create a page to where once in awhile you posted something like that. I don't know, what you could call it really but we could come up with something. It needs to be read by many."

https://video.wixstatic.com/video/270574_1929c056639142a6b849a8300d5828e1/1080p/mp4/file.mp4

One might say, "Oh she's biased." She probably is. I am, after all, her daughter. Her words hit their mark though and I started to wonder at all the people over the years who had encouraged me, complimented something I wrote, or reached out to me and asked me to "write something". Surely, they can't all be wrong, can they? Perhaps, that's simply what Satan wants me to believe, to prevent me from using the gift God blessed me with.

Previously, a month or two before the above response, my mom was nudging me back to writing. I'd been writing my brother, trying to encourage him. He is sadly in jail. I'd shared some of my writings to him with her. This is the response I received on those:

"Your grandpa told you, when you was a very young girl, that you had that gift. When you wrote a letter to a dying woman. You see when you listened to those other authors, I know it was a hard blow, but that's how Satan works Tonya. He has to find ways to knock you down. He can't let you be successful. He has to find ways to get inside your head, to beat you up, to the point you think the thoughts you thought and he won that round. There's going to be haters and critics, they're everywhere. You have to just know who you are Tonya. You can't let others define you, especially people who don't really know you. You have to know your own identity, who you are, what you are and you have to believe in the gift God has given you. He didn't give you that gift for you to box it up and keep it in those desk drawers or on that bookcase. What good is it doing there? Those emails you sent to your brother, that's some pretty good stuff. You very well could be saving your brothers life. Don't let the critics get in your head because you're gonna have them. Don't take it to heart. You can't let them have that kind of power over you. Everything you write may not be impactful or the word you're looking for, to everybody, but you never know. The one thing you might think is just not it, it might just be that one thing somebody needs. If it hits just one person right and it is that one thing they needed to hear that day, to get them through that day, then it was worth your time to write it because that person needed to read it. You may never know who read it, that needed it that day. You just have to believe that God gave you this gift for a reason and use it for his glory. As long as you do that, you'll be just fine".

Even mom remembers Linda's lost letter. Even mom recalls grandpa's disappointment and encouragement. There is a reason I write. A reason I weave words and thoughts together that cause others to respond in kind. It is not for glory or fame. It is to touch another soul in a way that only words can do. Words have power. They can cut like a knife or they can heal. My desire with my words is to help someone heal, to make them feel something, to say something that resonates with their soul and is like balm upon dry, cracked and chapped lips.

I am a simple writer. I write like I talk - as I'm told - and well, in my opinion, how else am I meant to write? If it didn't sound like me, it wouldn't be me. I have often said I'm the queen of run-on sentences - that's probably still true. I make mistakes. I put things in the wrong place and sometimes use the wrong word. I slave over them, pouring my heart into them and praying they reach the one God meant them for.

I don't want to feel the loss and longing of Linda's Lost Letter for the rest of my life. I don't want to hide my words away, in drawers and on shelves. I feel called to do something with them. I am reminded of a little song sung in children's church. "This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine, let it shine, let it shine. Hide it under a bushel, NO! I'm gonna let it shine..." Do you remember that one?

Well, my friends, it is time to shine. I don't know what that looks like yet. I don't know if there will be another published book, or simply blog posts and letters. But I am overcoming the obstacles upon the riverbank and flopping towards that cool refreshing water once more. I would be greatly honored if you were to pray me onward and just maybe, God will use me and the words he gives me, to reach and bless someone, somewhere. I ask for nothing more and nothing less. I desire to simply touch lives through words.

All my love,

Tonya