“Why don’t you write a book about your life?”
The question caught me off guard. It had nothing to do with what we’d been talking about. I paused for a few seconds, then gradually eased back into the flow of our conversation without giving her an answer.
After I hung up, her words lingered. I thought about them for a while, then eventually pushed the idea aside.
Four months later, we were on the phone again. And once more, right in the middle of our chat, she blurted out the same question:
“Why don’t you write a book about your life?”
This time I fired back, “Why are you asking me that?”
A bit startled and confused, she responded, “I don’t know. I’ve just been lying here all week, and it’s been on my mind.”
To most people, that question might seem ordinary. But to me, it was anything but. You see, my grandmother has been a farmer most of her life. From my perspective, writing books or telling stories was never something she saw as essential to surviving or succeeding. It simply wasn’t something I expected to hear from her.
What startled me most was that her question echoed something I had already been feeling deep inside—months before she ever said it. After my pastor read my testimony, he told me, “If you share this, you could save lives.” I thought about his words, but not for long. The idea of making my personal life an open book made me uncomfortable.
Since that moment, I’ve been wrestling with what I now know was a stirring in my spirit. I could feel God nudging me again and again: “Go deeper. Write the whole thing.” But writing it meant sharing it—and at the time, I didn’t yet have the spiritual maturity to understand that our testimonies don’t belong to us. They belong to God, to be used as He wills.
My grandmother knew nothing about the writing. I had only shared it with a few people from my church. I don’t think she even knew I was abused as a child. I only saw her on weekends, and I never spoke a word about what I was going through. She knew nothing of my struggles—I kept them all to myself.
So when she asked me a second time, I knew it wasn’t really her speaking. God had made it very clear what He wanted.
And now, I’m not willing to risk what might happen if I’m asked a third time.
(Written in 2010)