Grace Found in the Margins

 What ignites a person’s very existence? What is the one thing that sets the world ablaze with desire and passion? What allows a soul to breathe beneath the crushing sea of doubt and despair? How does one know a life has truly been lived?

Not everyone is blessed with the answers to those questions.But somehow, I found them—not once, but twice.

Throughout my life, I’ve worn many names: daughter, mother, sister, wife, and friend. Just as naturally as I have always known myself to be a woman, I have also always known myself to be a voracious reader and an eager, imaginative writer. These identities have shaped me more deeply than I realized, connecting the scattered chapters of my life into something whole.

My world was built on the love of reading and writing. My grandmother placed books in my hands before I even understood the depth they would bring to my life. We would curl together in her rocking chair, her Red Door perfume wrapping me in warmth as the pictures in each story seemed to come alive with her voice.

I learned to read almost overnight—quickly, hungrily—devouring every book I could find. My friends were reading Judy Blume, but I was sinking into The Thorn Birds. And when I began to weave my own stories, it was my grandmother, a writer herself, who encouraged that spark in me.

When she passed away when I was just thirteen, my world shifted off its axis. Yet in my grief, writing became the thread that kept her close. I wrote to her, about her, and through those words my sorrow slowly softened into something bearable.

But adulthood has a way of crowding out the things that make our souls feel alive. Between marriage, responsibilities, and the everyday rush, my own reading and writing began to fade. What used to be my refuge became something I “didn’t have time for.” And little by little, without realizing it, I began losing pieces of myself.

Motherhood came to me in an unexpected way—suddenly, I was caring for a seven-year-old and trying to pass on the love of stories that had shaped me. She sat with me reluctantly, humoring my attempts to breathe life into the pages. The bond I longed for, the one I’d had with my grandmother, never fully took root with her, no matter how lovingly I tried.

Years later, I saw a flicker of that same passion in the bright blue eyes of my second daughter, Addison. I read to her endlessly, holding her close as the pictures danced before her. Even as a toddler, she seemed to feel the stories.

Because of her special needs, many of our nights were spent in hospital rooms—long, sleepless hours under fluorescent lights. And it was in those nights that writing began to rise within me again, timid but determined. I also rediscovered my love of reading, this time through my Bible, where I found strength, peace, and comfort in ways I had never needed before.

But when my sweet girl passed away at just 28 months old, everything inside me broke.The words that once soothed me now felt too sharp, too exposed. Even my Bible—my place of rest—felt too tender to touch. My soul was raw, aching, emptied.

And yet… through time, grief, and grace, something remained.The love of reading and writing never disappeared.It simply waited.

I have been blessed to discover one of the most integral parts of my identity at such a young age. Reading and writing haven’t just shaped who I am—they have revealed who I was created to be. They are stitched into the fabric of my being, a gift God placed in my life long before I understood its purpose.

There may be seasons in my life when I lose parts of myself again—when grief, grief, or hardship dims my voice. But this part of me, this anchor of words and imagination, will always be there, softly illuminating the path back home.

My stories, my memories, my faith, my grief, my healing—they are the breath inside my soul.