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I never took a journalism class in my life, but in some ways I feel like I have been preparing to be a writer since I was a child. I began scribbling verse into a spiral notebook at the age of 10--a practice that eventually evolved into a semi-regular journal keeping habit. The blank page has always been the canvas on which I paint best my emotions and experiences with the nuanced hues of word choice, sentence structure, and punctuation.

In addition to being my personal escape from the pain and hardship doled out whimsically by this fallen world, writing became my most highly prized academic and later professional skill. I have always said, give me that 15 page final paper any day before a 3 hour comprehensive exam.

These days in Nicaragua, I find there are never enough words to paint the faces, colors, animals, streets, hands, shacks, feet, fruit, and hearts I see every day. At times I find my craft lacking texture, and even the photos I take seem like little more than the one-dimensional representations of life that they are. And I wonder, what am I possibly contributing with this simple skill of crafting sentences? And I worry, am I truly honoring God with this talent?

Despite all of this internal struggle, I keep writing. Putting my heart on my sleeve, sharing in the joys and sorrows of Nicaraguans all over this country, listening to tales of loss and love, despair and hope, struggle and forgiveness, healing and reconciliation. Believing that every story has value--because every person has value in the eyes of the One who made us and loves us. Knowing that my words alone may never justly portray the complexity nor the beauty within them.

But trying nonetheless.