Editor’s
note: Each month, the CCW blog features one of our members. This month, Cindy
Wilson reflects on how everyday life can be an inspiration. Visit her online at
www.cindyjeanwilson.com or www.facebook.com/CindyJeanWilsonAuthor.
By
Cindy Wilson
I’m
a writer.
Fascinating
words fill my mind and linger on my tongue, long after conversations are over.
I believe that “relationships should be
nurtured, moments need to be savored, and the Creator’s colorful
masterpieces—in the sky and dotted throughout the landscape—radiate beauty for
our enjoyment.”
How
can breathtaking scenes that fill me with delight, people who energize with
delightful memories, and poignant moments be ignored as they float away in the
wind without my writing the details down? Inspiration means nothing when it is
disregarded.
As
a child, intriguing scenarios captured my attention and begged for answers.
Curiosity usually got the best of me! I often bent to watch a caterpillar climb
a tree with its tiny body gripping the bark; noticed a mother pulling her
child’s arm as the toddler arched back, face reddened, with his volume of cries
increasing; or imagined the horrific end as a window washer slipped from his
perch twenty floors up before grabbing a dangling cable. You’ve seen these
things, too. Life is interesting.
My
father made sure we appreciated the rewards from hard work. “Nothing feels
better than accomplishing a task,” he said. If we didn’t have something to do,
he found a chore needing attention. Many hobbies consumed my free time when he
was busy: oil painting, playing the piano, ice skating, scuba diving, and
reading wonderful books. You can’t have too many! My favorites were the
dictionary and my Bible. I still read those regularly.
Talking
to people also has been important—essential for extroverts—and every person I
met was someone I wanted to be friends with, if possible. In rare moments of
connection, I longed to go deeper and get closer. Dad’s job involved moving
every year or two so new people and schools were commonplace. He shared his
ministry in churches on weekends where my sisters and I quoted scripture and
sang as part of the presentation. Interacting with strangers followed. Rarely
did we spend the weekend at home. Summers involved living outdoors at camps
where Dad directed the activities. I watched longing to be old enough to
participate, occasionally helping staff members, always eager for evening campfires
where singing, and talking about Jesus, followed by roasting marshmallows.
I
never dreamed about becoming an author, although I’ve been known for
storytelling skills most of my life. Telling exciting stories was something
special I shared with my mother beginning on my first day of kindergarten. She
couldn’t wait to hear the next one. My mom was an aspiring writer herself and
penned 37 pages of her memoir during my adolescence, gleaning tidbits from my
growing wealth of information about our ancestry. She finally asked me to help
finish that priceless work-in-progress. After self-publishing my first two
novels, Here’s An Apple, Sweet Adam
and A Time To Celebrate, I’m
completing the inspirational story of Fina’s
Dötter based on my mama’s memoir, and eager to share the legacy of a sad
orphan who was adopted by the heavenly Father and given a life of hope.
