Rebekah
about
Lathrop.
By that time, I’d already discovered that writing was the best way for me to process everything that flooded from my heart to my brain. But it wasn’t until I began writing down my prayers to the Lord, inspired by a book I often disagreed with, that the Lord began to transform the way I used the written word to live. Diary entries addressed to my future self began to sicken my soul. What use was this? Was I simply filling up pages with embarrassing truths to be unveiled once I’d been put in the ground? Make-believe tales, though dear to my heart, begged for purpose: I couldn’t answer. Instead, a prayer journal was begun, and the notes app of my phone began to fill up with thoughts directed at my God.
Breathless prayers. Turbulent notes of sorrow. Woes of heartbreak. Moments of awestruck wonder. Musings on scripture and sermons. All pointedly addressed to the One who painstakingly reads them, word for word, line for line, and listens as if I were speaking in his ear.
Eventually, I began to share these writings with those closest to me. By grace I do not understand, my words have been used to benefit others and remind them of the only Word they'll ever need. It is my prayer that my God will continue to do the same as long as he allows me breath and ability, for there is nothing else I would rather do than be used by Him to love others with this language it took me so long to learn.
In short, that which was my enemy became my life because it became the language I used to speak to the giver of life Himself and the lover of my soul, and I hope it is the means through which the Lord can bless even the smallest portion of His people.
I couldn’t read until I was 10.
The written word was a taunting, vicious bully that sucked every last inch of what little self-worth my young mind had formulated at the time. I vividly remember straining my eyes, head pounding, desperate to glean the smallest bit of information from squiggly markings on the page of a book that was written for preschoolers. It wasn’t the origin story of my insecurities, but it fed the hungry beast. Not even my parents know how many tears I cried in despair, convinced I was stupid and would never be able to learn.
One day, however, it finally clicked. And I never looked back.
What was once torturous mystery became my food - I craved the art of story. Soon, just reading wasn’t enough, and I began to write. Piano practice was shoved aside and forgotten, and even lunches were shoveled into my mouth amidst keyboard clacking. Half-finished novels and dramatic journal entries filled my hard drive and the box beneath my bed. I was hooked. Writing became my therapy.