It’s weird, the snapshots of life that somehow get stuck and stay with us forever. Like, I distinctly remember rain droplets tinkling against the glass panes of the window upon which my head lay when my grandmother died. Perhaps that’s why, years later, when Steve Wariner’s song, Holes in the Floor of Heaven, came out, I loved it. It sparked memories of sitting scrunched up between the window and the edge of the bed, staring out a wet, rainy world.

The cake my mom gave me on my 16th birthday was shaped — I remember the first time I saw that cake and how beautiful it was. Birthday cakes are meaningful to my mother: even if you have a million gifts wrapped, it’s not a birthday until you have a cake. That year, I understood how a cake could be more than a cake. The moment a country music celebrity I really liked remembered my name (he’d only met me a dozen times in a week, but, hey, don’t burst my bubble). The feeling when another celebrity said something inappropriate to sixteen-year-old me and I walked away feeling stupid: I couldn’t listen to another song of his again without remembering how it made me feel. How I felt when I held Hartprints, the first bound copy of one of my books, for the first time. I hand designed that cover, and I was so proud. I was so young.

I remember the sunlight falling onto the carpet as I walked down the hall to the sound of the TV news anchor reporting on the towers falling on 9/11. I was getting ready for my college class, and knew as I stared at the news that class was cancelled and the world was changed.

Where I was when I watched two little pink lines form on a pregnancy test. Neither time was I scared. I wasn’t nervous. I wasn’t upset. Elation and disbelief coursed through every vein in my body and I just wanted to scream it from the rooftops. It didn’t matter that it was a surprise – it was the two best surprises of my life.

The nuances of a random article I read when I was really hurting and how that article made me question why I was working so hard for air. The moment when I decided life actually was worth really fighting for.

The snapshots of life that stay with you hold the dreams you can’t let go of and the nightmares you can’t hide from.

Another such moment for me draws near.

I’ve detailed the importance of writing in my life ad nauseum, but it has really been a catalyst for joy, for healing, and for growth. This year, I formed a partnership with a bookstore in Pascagoula, MS: Vivid Volumes Bookshop. They are a unique bookshop that sells exclusive copies of River’s Rowan, Haven, Broken, The Character, The Storyteller and Ash. Each book includes sprayed edges: for example, Haven has a beautiful butterfly design while River’s Rowan speaks to the heart of the story.

They’ve been a terrific partner, and I leaped at the opportunity to join them for a book signing, FAQ, and meet-n-greet. The shop is small and can only comfortably accommodate so many people at a time, so we’re limiting the number of guests in the shop per hour. And I wanted to give back to the town hosting me, so we have partnered with Adrienne’s House – a division of the Gulf Center for Nonviolence and are donating 10% of the proceeds to this domestic violence shelter. The shelter opened in October 2011 and was named after a woman who was murdered by her abuser. They offer comprehensive services to those affected by violence, and are free of charge to the survivors. As a whole, the Gulf Center is the largest, most comprehensive center for nonviolence in the state of Mississippi and offers a variety of programs including domestic violence, sexual assault, a children’s program, families of homicide assistance and more. They serve about 12,000 people a year.

I selected them because of their reputation and because of the full spectrum of services they offer to those affected by different types of violence. Ultimately, my goal is to spark awareness with my writing, and to have one person recognize h/her story in these pages, realize there’s light at the end of the tunnel and seek help. A representative from the Center will be present at the event and, honestly, I couldn’t be more excited about raising money for this nonprofit.

Here are the details of the event!

Vivid Volumes Bookshop
Canty Street, Pascagoula, MS
September 6, 2024
3pm-6pm

3:00pm-4:00pm for VIPs only: this hour includes me reading from one of the books, answering FAQs and providing extra time for meet-n-greets.

4:00pm-6:00pm General Admission: meet-n-greets with signings.

Ticket prices:
VIP: $30 per person
GA: $15 per person

Get tickets here.

See, the writing is not about me. It’s about the power of God, and it’s also about the power of community. It’s about building people up instead of tearing them down. It’s about believing in a better tomorrow. It’s about destroying the lies of abuse one story and one connection at a time. By myself, I’m an unheard of single mom who maintains a 60-hour-week day job, homeschools and writes a few books in the dead of night. By myself, I’m a middle-aged run-of-the-mill woman who fills her time with kiddos, stories, work and volunteering. Psychologists would undoubtedly have a field day with me if I’d sign up for a session or two.

But I’m not by myself.

I’m part of a bigger something. In 2022, there were 442,754 women in the United States who reported being raped or sexually violated. According to World Health Organization, about 736 million women experience violence or sexual assault over their lifetime. Every 9 minutes, the Child Protective Services substantiates a reporting of child sexual abuse: according to the American Academy of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry, in 2023, this equated to 1 in 4 little girls, 1 in 13 little boys, or 539,529 children. Stories of survivors are easy to find and simultaneously heartbreaking and triumphant. In a community this big, change can undoubtedly occur.

I’m not by myself.

I survived because God held my hand every, single time I asked Him to. I’d hold my palm up to the ceiling, pray for Him to hold my hand, and then wait. Moments later, an inexplicable heat settled over my palm. Every, single time. When I shouldn’t have been here, I was protected. I didn’t come up with the idea to write stories, God gave that idea to me. I certainly didn’t intend to, plan or organize decide to write The Character – and I wouldn’t have been able to except instead of telling me what I was doing, He gave me scenes, one at a time, that hurt me to write but that were supported by Ash.

Since this is about something more than me, since it’s about supporting others and telling someone she’s not alone, unimaginable things can happen. Since it’s not about me, but about how God provides every, single, breathing human a way out that’s already inside of them — healing can happen. At every, single event I have ever done, there’s always been at least one person with whom I made a connection, one person that I left thinking, that person is why I came. And one person is enough. You know why? Because I believe, like, deep down, where it matters, that every single one of us was made in the image of God. And that means that the one who doesn’t believe she’s worthy anymore, the one who is buying all the lies abuse screams at her—she can show me something about God’s character, she can help me deepen my relationship with Him. And so she’s the one whose story I want to know. The man who thinks he can’t say anything about what happened to him because he was 1 of the 6 and nobody would believe him…. I believe him, and I want him to know it.

In person, I’m a lot less eloquent. In person, I’m kind of blah. But I’m not afraid of writing about the hard things. I’m not afraid of telling my story because there’s no amount of pain a troll can tell me that I haven’t already told myself. I’m not afraid of writing “graphic” depictions because sometimes the truth is graphic and because sometimes it takes reading a scene that you lived, reading the thoughts that you thought, to make you think wow, holy, it happened to her, too? I thought I was the only one. And thinking that just might convince you to reach out to me or someone else and say something hard for the first time; that just might topple the dominoes and unleash a chapter of healing you don’t think is possible. But I know is… because I’ve been there, and because I’ve felt it.

So….

Frankly, I’m scared to death that I’m spending money on a plane ticket, hotel room, rental car, gas and food and will get there to spend three hours talking to myself because, well, I am just an unheard of single mom who maintains a 60-hour-week day job, homeschools and writes a few books in the dead of night. Who would buy a ticket to see someone they’ve never met? That’s the voice in my head. You’re just a middle-aged woman who no one knows or cares about.

My response?

By myself, maybe. But I’m not by myself… and this is a door that’s opened and that I will walk through. And, in the end, if people ask me where the bathroom is and I end up staring at walls for three hours because no one’s bought a ticket to see me…. that’s okay, too. Cause at least I will not have allowed a lie bred from years of abuse to keep me from trying.

If you live in Mississippi… I’d love to see you. If you can’t, but would like to help support the Center for Nonviolence … I’ll happily donate 10% of any book sold here from now through September 6, 2024 to them.