One of my early memories is from when I must have been three or four. In my young memory it was dark outside, the carnival lit up like a ninety-year-old’s birthday cake. My dad held my hand and we walked toward a Ferris wheel. Up and around it went, over and over, buckets of people circuiting the sphere.
My dad asked me if I wanted to ride. I was scared, certain that as we reached the top of the arc the bucket would turn upside down, dump us out. But he seemed so calm, wanted me to join him. I remember the fear, mingled with complete trust that my daddy would protect me, keep me safe even though I didn’t know how.
I don’t remember the actual ride that night. And I don’t know that my dad ever knew how afraid I was. But I believed that he would never harm me. I knew I could give him my complete trust even when I didn’t understand. So I held his hand and climbed on board, white-knuckled, believing I’d survive the ride.
In all my adult years I’ve only ridden a Ferris wheel once, and life often presents itself as just such a ride full of fear and uncertainty and trust in a Father who will keep me safe. Whether it is the journey through infertility and adoption, my writing life, taking care of my family, the view keeps changing through the ups and downs. When I finally open my eyes and look around I have a whole new vantage point.
This is a repository for pieces of my journeys, parts of me I have a desire to share, a need to process in print. I hope that you’ll climb on board, uncertain as I am, and enjoy the ride.