A different love story

Published today on DaySpring.com Heart to Heart with Holley

http://blog.dayspring.com/2010/02/the-rest-of-your-story-28.html#comment-captcha

My love story is that of a covenant between God and my great grandmother who, accordingly to my parents, loved me very much. Though she died when I was two years old, I have felt a constant hand over my life that I could not always physically see, but was presently holding me, until I could hold the pen and begin to write on my own.

Beginning in the eighties when I lived at 29 Mission Park Drive—a place that will always be home for me. It is where I vividly recall spending eight years of my life growing and developing. When I think back to the eighties, the stories my mother enlightened me on remain clear in my mind—like the stories she shared with me regarding my birth.

I was the new shade, an addition to the family. My sister was seven; my brother was five. My brother made it clear when he stood at the end of my mother’s hospital bed with his narrow eyes squinted, pausing first, and then asking in a curious tone:

“Are you sure we have the right baby, mom?”

I guess it made sense that a five year old would wonder if, perhaps, I was accidentally separated at birth—that I could be someone else’s baby, as I was the new shade born with straight, jet-black hair, totally different from everyone else. I was often told that I resembled my grandmother, who accordingly to my mother prayed over me every chance she received. She must have prayed a special prayer of protection and comfort.

I recall countless memories of my first experiences, like learning to ride a bike, and having my kneecaps ambushed by Chris Stokes with his Cannondale triathlon bicycle. In all of these memories, I do not remember my grandmother. However her presence has never left me, especially in the times I have needed comfort; I can attest I feel her spirit with me.

I know that my first experience learning to ride a bike took place in front of 29 Mission Park Drive. The sun was out, shining bright and I was confident on my pink-and white banana boat bicycle my dad surprised me with.

That same day, I remember climbing up into the tree next to my house to pick wild cherries, a hobby my mother disliked. “You are a little lady, not a little boy,” my mother said. I knew I was just a skinny energetic girl who loved to climb trees and never thought anything of it. While climbing up the Cedar tree near my house, I would scrape skin off my kneecaps. Yet, the bleeding did not deter me. Instead it motivated me to make it to the middle where the tree trunk curled—covered in bark, almost into a seat, perfect for my petite physique.

Those were the years; the year’s innocence was prevalent. Months after my tenth birthday, my life took a turbulent turn. One unexpected storm approached after another altering and shifting what was once stability. That year, my parents separated, shattering my entire world.

Subsequently, a few months later, my mother left us for thirty days to detoxify from intoxicating substances: in recovery she called it, a phrase too big for my ten year old heart to handle. I discovered later that my mother’s courage to step out on faith reshaped her life and changed ours for the better. That year, I enrolled in middle school – was accepted to the Mo Vaughn Youth Development Program and begin to prepare for high school.

In 1996, I entered high school with vigor. The idiom that time passes quickly when you are having fun was true for me. I began writing for Voice Magazine my senior year, while preparing for college with the help of my Advanced Placement writing teacher. Our class was both exceptional and inspirational. Ninety percent of us were accepted to college.
That summer before we all departed for school, a tragedy occurred.

It was the top story on the five o’ clock news; it made the front page of both the Boston Globe and Boston Herald. It was a great story journalistically speaking: three beautiful college girls shot on their first day of school, described by one of the detectives as the bloodiest, vicious crime scenes he had ever seen. Those two girls that were murdered execution-style were my dear friends.

For me it meant devastation. My heart was shattered yet in the midst of this horrible storm – but in God I found strength, comfort and protection. Enough to pick up my belongings and take one step at a time, forward to pursue my degree. That summer I left and moved to Bridgewater Massachusetts, to attend Bridgewater State College. Writing, a gift that bestowed upon me from the most high, has ignited zeal within and created a passageway for me to continue.

My mission in life has been to continue to write, to not give up on loving and to carry a pen and pad everywhere I go to capture every moment in spite of the tears. I consider writing and the gift of expression my second love, God my first. For it has been in great times as well as the not so wonderful, that I’ve found refuge, strength and an overwhelming amount of courage to take the necessary steps forward, with pen in hand--writing one line at a time. For me the gift of writing is my love story. It is what I love to do, it is what has shaped me and assisted me to overcome. I often pray for opportunities to continue my journey as a journalist knowing according to Matthew 7:8 “For everyone who asks receives, and he who seeks finds, and to him who knocks it will be opened.”


Posted by: Sasha Link | February 14, 2010 at 04:03 PM