The Delayed Rest of the Story

Last week I told you about the first writing I ever published. I wrote an article about living with my dad's severe bout of depression {which happened back in my high school days}, and I promised to tell you more about the experience of seeing my name in print for the first time! And then I got sidetracked by life...imagine that!

So I'm back today to tell you more about sixteen year old writer girl Bekah

Back in those days, I had just started journaling regularly, and my pages were filled with {admittedly pathetic} accounts of the various men I just loved with all my heart. Most had no idea I existed, so the love chronicles were dreadfully one-sided. But all that ridiculousness aside, I was just beginning to discover how much I loved to write. So in my spare time {read: time not consumed by homework or babysitting}, I wanted to write. Short stories. Articles. Journal entries. Anything. Just let me write.

Inside that little devotional magazine that I read with great discipline every day was the "Speak Out" column, and in tiny print at the bottom was an invitation to find out how to "speak out" by writing the editor for details. I don't actually recall following those directions, but maybe I did. I do remember writing the article and putting my finished copy inside a manila envelope. I remember Mom driving me to the post office to mail it, and I remember finding it odd that she didn't ask why I was mailing such a large envelope.

Weeks went by, and I somewhat forgot about it. The summer was winding down and the week arrived when I needed to register for classes for my sophomore year.

I don't remember where my dad was the day the phone rang, but I remember he wasn't home. Mom had been hired to help with textbook rental at the high school during registration week, so she had gone to work. I was home in my flowery pink bedroom, liberally applying hairspray to my big 90's hair, in yet another futile attempt to get my heavy bangs to POOF.

The phone rang {imagine the big clunky cordless phones with the foot long antennae that pulled out from the top} and I answered. It was before the days of caller ID, so every call was a mystery. A woman with a thick southern accent asked for me, and when I identified myself, she said she was calling from YouthWalk.

I'll never forget...her name was Millicent, and she told me they were going to publish my story. I worked on NOT screaming in her ear and began to pace rapidly back and forth across my narrow, crowded-with-junk bedroom while she explained very casually how it would work. She edited for a living. This was no big deal to her. This was a very big deal to me, and my throat grew tight as she talked. I wanted to laugh and cry and scream and call everyone I knew.

After Millicent and I hung up, I immediately called the school to ask for Mom. {Seriously, how DID we manage before cell phones?} It took forever, it seemed, for them to page her and for her to pick up. There was sort of an unwritten rule in those days that unless you saw blood or fire, you probably shouldn't call Mom at work during registration week, so she was a bit unnerved when she answered. She immediately blurted out "Are you okay?"

I'm guessing the fact that I was in full-on-meltdown didn't really help calm her as I tried to explain that I really was fine. And then I tumbled through a mostly incomprehensible story that had to start way back at the beginning since she didn't even know I'd submitted anything for publication. She began to make sense of my hiccupy story and then she began to cry.

In late November 1994, I rushed to the literature table at church and grabbed the fresh magazines that had been placed in the holder for December. I opened up the cover to the first page...and there was my name: Rebekah Freelan. There was my picture...captured in the photo kiosk sitting in the middle of  K-Mart.

I was a real author. My words had moved past the pathetic pages of my journal. 

We grabbed every copy in the church and called YouthWalk to order more. My Mom distributed them to the entire family at Thanksgiving and had me autograph them for every relative {probably whether they wanted that or not}. Mom, always the biggest champion of my writing, told every soul she knew and I think that moment was as big for her as it was for me.

So that was how it happened! I cherish that memory. Such a beautiful time. Thankful for the chance to not only share my experience with others, but to enjoy a smile of God.