Yesterday, on Sheridan Voysey’s blog, I read this story about St. Hilda, an English saint from the 7th century. In the story, a farmer named Caedmon had a dream that a man told him to sing a song about Creation, but since he was a farmer and not a singer, he refused. But upon further prompting, Caedmon did write a song.
When he woke up, he remembered the song and told his foreman about the dream. The foreman took him to St. Hilda, who treated Caedmon with respect, tested his calling toward song-writing, and became his patron, enabling him to pursue his calling.
The thrust of Voysey’s post was that each of us have a calling to use our talents for God, but sometimes we need a St. Hilda in our life in order to help us see that.
When I began writing, my wife was my biggest champion. I am, at best, an enthusiastic amateur when it comes to the written word. But when I told my wife that I wanted to write, she didn’t laugh; she offered to read my stuff.
I started writing quirky stories about a squirrel and his invisible roommate. She encouraged me to continue. I joined a writer’s group. She gave me the time I needed. I participated in a 3-day novel-writing contest, and she helped me develop ideas for my book.
DeAnne has been with me and my writing career from the beginning. She has helped make my dreams into realities. My wife is my St. Hilda.