My childhood shares some uncanny parallels with Laura Ingalls.’ When I turned seven, my pioneer parents packed up our Ford Escort and fled the civilization of our small paper mill town. Staking a claim in the backwoods of Maine, we lived in a trailer without running water or electricity while my father built a small cabin. Family fun time meant picking up the nails my father dropped, filling water jugs at the spring, and gathering wood for our stove.

We watched the sun rise every day while careening back down the mountain toward town, dodging moose along the way. Our destination? The one-room schoolhouse taught by my mother and her best friend. There I learned, among other things, how to yodel, braid rugs, and make lucky guesses on multiple choice tests. I remember next to nothing of the academic topics which worksheets rendered lifeless, but I do remember the books.

After the recess hour of galloping imaginary horses over the bare parking lot “playground,” we gathered in a sweaty circle around Mrs. Jamison. We could draw or crochet or just sit spellbound while she led us into the worlds of Charlotte’s Web, Johnny Tremain, and The Wind in the Willows. Waiting after school for my mother to herd her students homeward, I took Mrs. Jamison’s advice to “make a nest” of blankets in the library – a lofty name for four shelves of books in a closet-sized room.  Those narrow walls fell away as I plunged headlong into Nancy Drew, Chronicles of Narnia, and Rainbow Garden. Other times, Mrs. Jamison would slyly pass a book off to me as though it were some contraband item. I met Old Mother West Wind and Anne of Green Gables this way.

But the books weren’t limited to school. At home my mother read us the Little House series on repeat. Weekends found my brother and me riding our bikes three miles to the village for penny candy and puffing back, handlebars laden with library books—National Velvet, Misty of Chincoteague, The Wheel on the School. Before my dad drove the last nail into our cabin, he constructed the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf of my mother’s dreams. Whatever the deficiencies of my elementary education, the wealth of books provided ample compensation.

Two decades later as a freshman English composition teacher, I witnessed firsthand the results of childhood book deprivation. I nearly tore my hair out over students who had spent twelve years in school but couldn’t write a clear sentence. Explaining the elements of grammar made no difference. Patiently pointing out their errors and providing revision suggestions availed nothing. Assigning classic works on the writing process proved futile.  

When my own children approached school age, I longed to protect them from a similar fate. I had already wrestled with God about homeschooling, gradually working my way from the “You can’t be serious, Lord,” stage to tentative enthusiasm. But as I considered what I would actually do each day with my tiny scholars, I wondered, “What is education, anyway? What kind of education nurtures writers?”

We embarked on our educational journey with these questions unanswered. I simply clung to the hope that filling their days with books would somehow work wonders. As we read book after book together, a pattern started to emerge, soothing my anxiety. All the great heroes, thinkers, and writers we read about had one thing in common – excellent books. Young Ben Franklin lived on bread and butter to afford Pilgrim’s Progress. Thomas Jefferson set himself a grueling reading schedule: science books before dawn, law from 8:00 to noon, politics and history in the afternoon, and literature until bedtime. Nathaniel Hawthorne read Shakespeare and Milton for himself while still a boy.

None of these stories were new to me, but taken one after another in rapid succession, they burned an impression on my mind. The answer seemed so simple now. You can’t wring out of someone what was never poured into them. My writing students couldn’t write because good writing hadn’t saturated the atmosphere of their childhood. No writing curriculum can beat the simple act of reading, performed faithfully day after day for a lifetime.

For those of us who tend to complicate things, we may rebel against the idea of simply reading. In a frantically busy and perpetually distracted age, we may long for the convenience of a writing program that proposes distinct steps to a concrete result. But if we can free ourselves from these objections, we’ll soon discover the beauty of walking through life in the companionship of great books.

Keep in mind, though, that not just any reading will do. As my graduate school professor exhorted me, “You must read widely and deeply.” Read fiction you enjoy, certainly, but challenge yourself to a courageous reading life. If you normally read historical fiction, launch out into fantasy. If you always read contemporary works, pick up a classic. Consider C.S. Lewis’s advice: “It is a good rule, after reading a new book, never to allow yourself another new one till you have read an old one in between (“Introduction”). Libraries these days are ridding their shelves of anything written before this current century, to the great detriment of our vocabularies, intellects, and moral vision.

Read alone and read with friends. My friends and I started a simple book club which I believe has survived because of its simplicity. We meet once a month and while the children run wild, we take turns summarizing the chapters we read. Then we share observations, questions, and personal impressions. No complicated discussion questions or literary analysis techniques required.

If you didn’t have a childhood rich in books, don’t despair. Each time I sit down to read aloud with my children, I feel like I’m redeeming yet another small part of the education I never had. It’s never too late to read, and the books we missed as children can speak to us profoundly even as adults. If you, like me, are a tired mother who tends to nod off over her books, consider the advice 19th century educator Charlotte Mason passed on to us from a well-read mother: “‘I always keep three books going—a stiff book, a moderately easy book, and a novel, and I always take up the one I feel fit for! (“Mother Culture”).’”

Here are some of my favorite resources for nurturing a satisfying, challenging, adventurous, and downright fun reading life:

The Literary Life Podcast

Book Girl: A Journey Through the Treasures and Transforming Power of a Reading Life, Sarah Clarkson

The Well-Educated Mind: A Guide to the Classical Education You Never Had, Susan Wise Bauer

The Read-Aloud Handbook, Jim Trelease

Citations

Lewis, C.S. “Introduction to Athanasius’ On the Incarnation.” chrome-extension://efaidnbmnnnibpcajpcglclefindmkaj/https://www.bhmc.org.uk/uploads/9/1/7/7/91773502/lewis-incarnation-intro.pdf

“Mother Culture.” The Parents’ Review, vol. 3, no. 2 (1892-93), 92-95. https://www.amblesideonline.org/PR/PR03p092MotherCulture.shtml.

When I asked ABH President Fran Geiger Joslin to speak to my freelance writing class at Cairn University in 2017, she challenged me to think twice about whether I really wanted her input. She never gives the typical advice on topics such as how to get published, make a full-time living as a freelance writer, or market work on social media. Her message encompasses something far more simple yet far more earth-shattering.

Fran’s message? Write to change just one person’s life. Write to advance Christ’s kingdom.

Why hadn’t I thought of that? Why had I never encouraged my students in this way?

Somewhere between the campfire services of my youth, where I yielded my whole life to God, and the mediocrities of my suburban Philadelphia life, my eternal perspective blurred.

Yes, Lord, I’ll go to Africa, Kosovo, Haiti, anywhere. I’ll do anything you ask, I promised in my teens and twenties.

But in my thirties, that “anything” started to look a little different.

Will you give up the possibility of full-time teaching and writing to stay home with an infant and toddler?

Oh boy. Well, I never really considered myself a kid person, but since you asked, I’ll give it my best shot.

Will you focus on worshipping me instead of worrying so much about doing things for me?

Hmmm, since you gave me two kids who are allergic to sleep, it’s going to be a little tough to squeeze you in, but I’ll see what I can do.

Those “anythings” kept me so busy I wondered if I had only made up a third “anything” whispering beneath the frantic din of life with my two-under-two.

Write. Use this gift I gave you. Stop making it so complicated. Start with the opportunities right in front of you.

For years I struggled with a haunting fear that if I took my writing seriously, it might become an idol in my life. Of course God would require me to sacrifice the thing I love most, right? Isn’t that how it worked for Abraham with Isaac?  

Enough of crippling guilt! I took the plunge. I stopped dreaming of becoming a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist and started writing for my local newspaper, academic conferences, book review websites—anything and everything that seemed within reach.

These somewhat scattered efforts yielded the pleasurable adrenaline rush of seeing my words, my name, in print. Like experiencing a runner’s high, I basked in the glow until it inevitably faded. A rush. Is that really all I sought from this writing life?

“Seek ye first the kingdom of God…” (Matthew 6:33)

I sang the song to my girls on countless sleepless nights, but when Fran spoke to my writing class, I realized I was the one who had fallen asleep.

One groggy morning I flipped through Jennie Allen’s book Anything looking for something besides coffee to sustain me through the day. These words beckoned from the page: “And God is saying, Look up. This is going fast. Your life here is barely a breath. There is more, way more,” (2011, 71).

More than my name at the top of an article. More than a check in the mail. More than a “well done” from an editor. My coffee grew cold in the mug as I stared unseeing out the window, pondering the new dreams beginning to unfold for my writing. Dreams of no longer conforming to the writing and publishing patterns of this world. Dreams of writing to make God famous, to heal one heart. Dreams of storing up treasure in heaven even if I never earned one cent on earth.

With the baby still blessedly sleeping, I grabbed my computer and dashed off an email to Fran. I told her I didn’t know how her words impacted my students, but I for one would never think about writing the same way. Could she help me find a way to write for the kingdom? And so my journey of writing and editing with ABH began.

As a staff writer now for ABH, I’ve spent the last six years wrestling with the “more” God might want for my writing. I knew from the first that ABH offered no promise of fortune and fame; I realized later that God also never promised to save multitudes through my writing. He may want to touch just one, and I need to be okay with that.

Our great God is also the God of the widow’s mite, the mustard seed, the little boy’s little lunch. He’s the heartbroken father lavishing all he has on one prodigal son. I can’t simply replace earthly ambition with spiritual ambition and pretend I am writing for the kingdom. Each day I must take my eyes off myself and release my work into his hands. Each day I must pray he distributes the loaves as he sees fit and feeds whomever he chooses with them.  

As my former writing dreams fade, my soul awakens to a grander prospect. How about you? What if God wants more for your writing than you ever dared dream? Will you bring a mighty God the small offering of your writing? And will you trust him whether he heals one hurting heart or multiplies your offering to the multitudes?

How much does it take to make me smile?

Well, most people would say I smile all the time, but I mean what does it take to get me really excited?

The answer? Not much—and yet, so much! Let me explain.

I work among writers. Good writing makes me so happy! If I receive a manuscript or a blog article that strings great words together, I could get out of my chair and dance a jig. Great writing is hard to come by, believe it or not. When I see it, I laugh out loud with excitement!

In a ministry where the buck stops with me, I constantly ask the Lord questions like, “What’s next? What do I do about this situation? How do I expand the ministry?” I constantly pray over our authors, our leaders, our staff, donations, and the people who read our books.

For years I have prayed for a team of great writers. It’s easy to get discouraged when two or three of us are writing but producing very little. I know we can’t meet all the needs out there if we constantly work at a slow pace.

We often meet online with authors and potential authors. When I speak for just a few minutes with someone I feel can enhance our ministry with their message and their writing, I shout, “Hallelujah!”

Let’s be honest. I’m not good at fundraising. As a matter of fact, I hate it. I’ve been pressured in the past to give. Because of that, I never pressure anyone to give. I pray about it and figure the Lord will take care of us. This year, I did reach out to a few churches to see if they would consider helping us out.

There was a time when I prayed for a million dollars. I can tell you that would certainly bring me joy! These days, though, I rejoice over every donation we receive, knowing the Lord can put it to good use.

This year the Lord has brought a lot of things together for us. We are building a great team of authors. We are building a translation team. The donations are rolling in. Africans and Mexicans are begging for more books. This year? I’m dancing and singing, and shouting, “Hallelujah!” There is no greater joy than to see your prayers answered. To see them answered all in one year? Now, that will make me not only smile, but I might just get out of my chair and dance some kind of jig.