Two things:
It’s my blog’s birthday! YAY!
But it’s also a rekindling of an old friendship that I’ve had with my own words.

You see, I’ve always loved words. When I was 5, and I had a new neighbor move into the apartment next to mine. You would think I thought it was Christmas morning! I immediately said hi, asked what she liked to do and what her favorite toys were. I don’t remember if I was bouncy, but I would like to think I was.

But it didn’t exactly pan out the way I hoped. My new friend looked at me with big eyes, hid behind her mom, and looked confused. She had no idea what language I was speaking, but it certainly wasn’t English.

English is actually my second language. You’d never know from our conversations because no, I don’t have an accent—Spanish or Southern (since I grew up in Atlanta). My Spanish has an anglicized bent to it. Not tor-till-uh level, of course, but enough that you can tell that there’s a difference similar to the peh-cahn and pee-can difference (there’s an open syllable for pecan, in case you didn’t know that the latter pronunciation, I believe, is correct).

Yet, sharing my own words has been difficult. I’ve always found a reason NOT to.

My favorite and least favorite class in college was screenwriting. There was something to the formation about a story, on paper, that developed into something more on screen. It seemed almost magical how something as simple as letters arranged in a certain way on a plain sheet of paper became a lesson, an emotional response, or even a memory that someone else relives. In that same class, I learned to share my soul.

But I also had the soul-crushing experience of in-class critique. One particular screenplay I wrote was rather dark, but it was something I wanted to share. After I read my story, my professor said something that I won’t ever forget.

I’m not sure that story works.

Those words seared into my soul like a hot brand. I remember a sinking pit growing inside my stomach, but I quietly thanked him for his feedback and hid my face behind my other classmates’ scripts to avoid the roaring rush of tears ready to let loose at any moment. At the end of class, I surrounded myself with the words from my classmates from their own stories. I basked in their words while I all but tore apart my script. I couldn’t deny the magnificence of their words because their stories spoke to me as well. I made peace with my script and immediately thought of what I could do to change it. But one of my other classmates stopped me in the hallway.

I thought it was an important story—here’s why.

And just like that, he laid out every aspect about what worked and how I held back.

***

My stories have changed from my youth. In a way, they’ve become less about me. In a weird paradoxical way, they’ve also become more about who I am. The biggest story of all in me has to do with the gospel.

One of the best storytellers I know is my friend Peg. Peg is who I want to be when I grow up—confident, bold, unashamedly enthusiastic, and knows how to pair red lipstick with anything! Peg is also the epitome of Titus 2:3—she is a godly woman who loves her husband to pieces, a devoted mother, a counselor to all women, young and old, and speaks the truth with so much honey, you’d wonder if she were a bee.

This same woman gave me marital advice and prefaced it with the fact that she recently got into a fight with her husband. Boldness has red lipstick, and her name is Peg.

Along that same vein, she doesn’t just speak what sounds good but teaches what is good. When I read further into Titus 2, Titus 2:5 ends “..that the word of God may not be reviled”. Peg showcases the gospel in such a way that the forgiveness of Jesus is always the punctuation mark to her advice, counsel, and stories. The word of God is revered in the way she lives life!

***

I thought about titling my blog “hola, Fizzy!” after Peg’s nickname for me. But I thought it would be a more appropriate introduction.

Hola, hi, and hello! I’m Neidy (nay-dee). Peg says I’m enthusiastic, but I want to be clear. I’m enthusiastic about one thing—the gospel. Many parts of my life appear lovely and cheery (and for the most part, they REALLY are), but I certainly don’t have it together. I’ve fought with my husband. I’ve yelled at my kids. I’ve said I’m sorry more than I care to count.

But forgiveness has been offered to me—free because of grace. Every story I tell is with that lens.

So if you’re reading this and this doesn’t work for you, that’s okay.
But if it’s important to you, then the gospel is why my story works. I’m sure we’ll laugh a little or even cry, but in the end, it’s all about Jesus.

I’m thrilled you’re here.