Winter date nights in South Dakota always included a stop to the bookstore. My husband and I would grab our favorite coffees from Seattle’s Best and browse. It was during these years my desires shifted from a want for more books, to a want to write a book.
I would walk in and dream about picking a book up off the shelf, opening it, and inhaling the smell of fresh words on a page. The longer I’ve written, the more friends I’ve met who are published. The more names I recognize on the shelf. And because I love them, I pick their books up and inhale their words—visually and spiritually.
Publication has always been the edge of my dream, the boundary at which it stopped.
For years I believed the ultimate medium upon which my story should appear is ink and paper. Now I realize there is an even greater medium—for some choose to write their stories upon the hearts of others.
It’s not a story that will ever make the best-seller list.
It’s not a story that the whole world will hear.
It’s not a story that will build a platform.
It’s not a story that will have a sequel.
The story of our lives is written once. A single volume with low volume—written in the whispers of prayer that open early morning. Written in the lunches packed before sunrise. Written in the books read aloud on weathered sofas. Written in the time spent curled up in each other before a movie. Written in the promises kept even when broken. Written in the phone calls to check in on a friend. Written by the tears shed when a friend is in pain. Written in the hard words spoken from love.
The story of our lives is written once. And if I’m very honest, I desire more than ink on a page.
I want to exchange our stories and engrave them upon hearts so that when you are gone I can turn back the rhythm of life and say, “Here was she who lived here with me. And these are the words of her life that day.”