I just came back from our mailbox, again. I guess the third time’s a charm cause there it was…a very special magazine. Not just any magazine, a magazine that sponsored my most recent published article, The Family History Club. I held the magazine and cried. My article is about another day, that I cried yet again, while I faced the anger of my mother’s death and the fear that I would die breast cancer too.
Calling myself a “writer” (thank you dear Jen!) is still not natural. After much deliberation, I decided that I’d give it a try. Just days later, the Census dude came by and asked me my occupation. I declared, “Freelance Writer.” Good job self, knew ya could do it! He said, “What is your annual income?” I replied, “Ummm, I’m not paid yet.” He quickly shot back, “Oh, I won’t put that down, cause it’s more like a hobby.”
Great, just great. Even the Census dude knows I’m a fraud.
Then another rejection letter came. I figured it was safe to say that if I referred to myself as a writer just one more time, that I would be placed into some formal institution that housed former child stars gone bad, or people who thought they were E.T., Mr. T or Elvis’s banana and peanut butter sandwich. To be honest with you, I’m the last person to think that I’d turn out to be a writer. I have a Criminal Justice degree. I h-a-t-e-d English class (all of them…sorry Mrs. Shuba and Mr. Morgan). My handwriting is more akin to hieroglyphics. My sentence structures are questionable. My word choices are wobbly. I even make words up and use them like they’re real. My recent creation, “hilariosity”. Catchy, huh?
While choosing to call myself a writer is not natural, neither is my choosing faith over fear.
The first round of The Family History Club was a “maybe”. This may sound lame, but a “maybe” is really, really encouraging to this unknown freelance writer. The editor told me that she would reconsider, if I edited it. She also added that she wasn’t sure if I had really faced my fear. Reading that, hurt. Not nearly as much as when I realized that she was right. I wrote about what I “would do” but not what I “was doing” about my fear. In the middle of the editing process was where God opened my heart, to practice the process of trusting Him more than my fear. As I look back now, if my article had gotten either a “yes” or “no” the first time around, I would have missed God’s “purpose” that was neatly tucked away in the editing process.
Writing, like facing fear, is a process. There are layers that require time and a whole lot of faith.
I’m certain (now) that being a writer and remaining faith-ful is what God wants me to do. While I have hilariosity (see how smooth that was) in me while I pet my hot-off-the-press-article, it’s all the sweeter because God revealed His heart, while I worked through the editing process. It comforts me to know that it is in the edits of life where God remains faithful to meet me. Unbeknownst to me, I began the face-my-fear-”editing-process” when I showed up for my first mammogram, which led to a surgeon, which let to an out-patient biopsy, which led to another mammogram which led to an MRI (aka: such a p-r-o-c-e-s-s). That MRI was the same MRI that God used to birth the article, and now this blog post, where I get to showcase the new word hilariosity. It’s a win-win as far as I see it.
Tomorrow brings October which is National Breast Cancer Awareness month. I leave you with just two questions. How has breast cancer impacted your life? And, will you try to infuse the word “hilariosity” in your daily life? 
I’m going to do what I have to do to not just keep healthy, but have fun while I’m watching my weight!
