The Birth of Imagination . . .
I grew up in probably the best place in the world: a dairy farm in Minnesota. Oh, I know, many of you are wrinkling your noses thinking, what about Hawaii? California? the Rocky Mountains? Any number of places could be better, definitely warmer, and a whole lot less work.
Yet in spite of stepping in fresh manure piles, tossing bales in 90 degree heat and stifling humidity, and suffering through temperatures cold enough to freeze breath and limb, fun was had and stories were born.
My daughter tells me I grew up spoiled. I had everything a child could possibly want: hay sheds for building forts, hay lofts with rope swings, tons of swimming lakes within biking distance, a sledding hill right across the road, our own pond to skate on, snow piles--high as our house--in which we created little cabins, acres of trees to climb and to weave bike paths through, corn fields in which to play hide and seek, all the homegrown sweet corn we could eat, a baseball field with unique boundaries (if you hit the ball into the tractor shed, it was a ground rule double; over the shed, it was a home run). That's just a few things I was spoiled by.
To make it even better, I have four brothers and two sisters as built in play mates; at the farm next door they had eight children; at the farm up the road they had 18? or was it 19? children. Does it really matter?
It was a farm layed out over rolling hills. The sunsets and sunrises were filled with hues city dwellers can only imagine. The northern lights could be seen in their full cascade of colors. Shooting stars were common place. Nothing says it better than Psalm 19:1: "The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands."
The farm was also fertile ground for imagination. I'd often go for walks, with my faithful German Shepherd at my side, and imagine myself in a different time and place. Some of those stories made it onto paper and several teachers encouraged my imagination.
Like so many authors, I always dreamed of writing a novel, but for many years that's all it was: a dream. Practicality said that there was no career in writing, so why waste my time?
Fast forward several years later. In the spring of 2005 I was a stay-at-home mom whose three kids were in school full time. (What else is a literature major to do with her degree?) I could do the "practical" thing and get a job, help support the family. I even picked up an application from the local Christian book store.
Then I felt the nudging. The LifeKeys course at our church taught me that God gave us our passions for a reason. Our passions had a purpose. I'd never truly believed that before, but now I gave it consideration. My imagination had never stopped; the stories had become more real, more complex.
It was time to write.
Two weeks later I confessed to my husband that I spent my "free" time writing. He told me: "It's about time." How's that for confirmation?
So now, it's two years and three completed novels later, all stories written in a partnership with God, stories I believe He placed within my psyche for a purpose. It's my prayer, as I record the stories God has given me, that my words will do them justice, that others will hear the message God wants me to convey.