Tuesday, October 15, 2013

Chill Bumps


My story is one of triumph. All of my pages have yet to be filled, while each chapter so far is finished with tears, lessons, chains, debt, pain, questions, joy and strength. There are days I am discouraged when I flip to the last page and it is blank.

It is then I remember books are not read from end to beginning, rather savored word by word, sentence by sentence, page by page. I will be patient, and I will be articulate with the words I choose to fill my pages. I will be cautious who I let read my story, for not everyone appreciates broken beauty.

So do not be discouraged, my beautiful friends, sometimes a blank page is one of the most beautiful things we can be.

                                                Olivia Vaughan
                                                October 2013


Beautiful, growing wise Olivia



There are two magnetized white boards on our refrigerator. My daughter bought them and put them there, and they are often filled with words. Notes to sisters, reasons why sisters are loved, quotes and scripture occasionally. These sisters are forever writing on things that aren’t necessarily meant for text, but that’s the beauty of it! I get up in the mornings or come home in the evenings and often there will be a new message on one or both of the boards. Sometimes I laugh. And of course, sometimes, I cry.

One October morning the words in Olivia’s paragraph above appeared on one of the boards. Standing in my night gown I read and reread those words. I texted my third daughter and asked for permission to print her words here.

Why?

That is a question that doesn’t even need to be answered. All my daughters can write. Seriously, it blows my mind. Words are embedded in all of them, rooted and established but translated differently in each one. They all have their own wording, phrasing, vocabulary, style and voice. But they all have itit being whatever is the mystery that allows us to string words together.

But Olivia’s words have hung round my neck like a vintage Victorian locket. I hid them away for several days. Then I opened them and read them and loved the beauty of them, but for a while I ignored the pain of them. I turned a blind eye to the truth in them.

Last night one of her friends came by to eat cookies with us. She stopped at the fridge and read. She turned and looked at me and asked who had written the words. I told her and she said, “that just gave me chill bumps.”

I agree.







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