When the Walls Came Tumbling Down
When I was a young girl, I fell in love with words and story. I scribbled hand-written pieces in my upstairs bedroom on that Tennessee hillside as the hemlock trees stood guard just outside my window. I imagined a grown-up world where I could roam the globe with a camera strapped around my neck and leather-bound journals in my bag containing the stories of faraway lands and their stunning people. Somewhere in my soul, a dream hatched. Every once in a while, I shared it out loud, half-joking, half-hoping. I imagined myself as the first National Geographic missionary photojournalist chasing God stories and catching them in my camera lens and moleskin journals. I believed God could do something beautiful with His stories, and I wanted to write them for the world. Life rarely sends anyone a hand-wrapped gift tied with a lovely bow labeled "your childhood dream." We grow and live and learn and make new dreams. The old dreams form new shapes and take on new meanings almost
