They Called me a Writer

The denomination wherein  I worship celebrated All Saints Sunday on November 1st. 

It is a worship service of  Holy Communion and we remember those who have shared their faith and died in the past year. 

In 2015,  I buried three loved ones with great faith: my mother, Ima Rose Fouraker Carter, and friends, Janice Ellen Thompson Livermore and Harry Archer Livermore.  These three were listed in my church bulletin among others in the faith who died this year.

I sure do miss them, but I can't begrudge the Lord for taking them.  They are his; they lived long wonderful lives. Their lives were the kind that touched others deeply with the love, goodness and provision of God.   

My mother gave me the best start in everything necessary.  I lacked no good thing.  The things I hold dear in my faith are the things she taught me.  As her youngest, I had her on a technicality. My earliest memories are of  her teaching me to pray and reading to me.  She gave me a love of the written word.  I grew up deep in the country--surrounded by dirt roads, farms, cows, and trees. We lived so far from town, I entered first grade without the benefit of attending preschool or kindergarten. This was just about a week after the earth's crust had cooled.  But, mother read to me from books brought to us by the book mobile from the library in town. And, many years later, she paid for my first writers course.

My Mother, Rose Carter in 1946.

In 2003, I met Jan in a lay ministry training course.  The training course and the friendship we formed have been monumental in my faith journey.  All but six months of my entire life, I have lived on my family farm, surrounded by kin folk and friends who put up with me. They support me in wonderful ways. 

Yet, I ain't never had a friend like Jan.  She is the dearest friend I have ever had.  She possessed all the qualities people need in friendship; her ability to be a friend was down right divine.   Without my realizing, she once showed an assignment from my writers course (the one my mother paid for) to her husband, Harry.  He was the editor of a quarterly regional magazine.  

I remember well the moment I clicked on the email from Harry asking could he use the assignment for the magazine.  My life has never been the same. He even published a few more of my articles before his death.  Harry encouraged me to stay true to my own writers voice; to never stop honing the craft.  He said my work was hard to edit because my writers voice is so unique. I treasured that even though I now realize this is true of all writers.  But, all writers aren't fortunate enough to have someone tell them so.

My friends, Jan and Harry Livermore; they married in 1988. 

Sometimes, it is hard for a person who loves to write to actually call herself a writer.  Unless you make a living as a writer, there seems to be a certain responsibility or dues that must be met before allowing yourself this title.   

But, my mother, and Jan and Harry shared their faith in God with me and they gave me tools to be a writer.  They called me a writer. 

And, who am I to argue with saints?