I was born in the cedar-scented winds of North Texas, grew up under the purple shadow of Nairobi’s Jacarandas, and have now settled into the sweet woodland breezes of Maryland. And of course, along the way, I met some beautiful wordsmiths – Lewis, McDonald, Tolkien, and many more. And behind all these stood the original Wordsmith. The One who spoke the light into being. The words of these writers, these world-painters, these truth-tellers, they wound their way through my mind to my heart and into the pulse of my everyday motion. They became the framework for the way that I see, move through, and touch the world. And seeing the magic they had wrought in me, this is what made me say “I want to do that,” at first in a child’s hushed voice and again, for many years to come, each time slightly louder “I want to do that!”

Over the years, I’ve found different ways to do it. I spent four years in the secondary English classroom delighting in the moments when my students found words that carved their way into their souls as well. Then I found it in university classrooms and writing centers where I got to hold the hands of new writers as they took brave steps into telling their own stories. And I found it in the books I read my own children as they huddled in my lap and allowed me to breathe into their hearts the same tales that had quickened my own. But most of all I found it in the wonder of making worlds of my own, speaking my own frail light into existence in the hope that it will look a little bit like His, and playing at the childish game of imitation.

I have never had the knack of articulating with direct and precise language the things that I have experienced or the things that I believe. If you asked me why I believe in the resurrection or what it means to follow Jesus, I will sputter awkwardly and tell you something either unintelligible or cliché and meaningless. But I can tell you a story. And when you’ve heard my story, I hope you’ll understand. Some things are too complex to be told without metaphor.