I am not the real Dread Pirate Roberts.

Let’s pause the story for just a second.

Last Thursday, I was given the opportunity to share my testimony with a group of women who have only known me in the context of motherhood and matrimony. I hadn’t practiced, or even stopped to think through what I was going to say. I kinda just opened my mouth and started from the beginning.

Huge mistake.

I am not joking, one woman had a panic attack and ran from the room. The rest of the group just squinted and blinked at me, heads cocked, brows furrowed. My time ran out and I had to leave them there, thoroughly lost as to how this story gets untangled, gets me from there to here, gets redeemed.

I read this article (completely unrelated to this topic other than the excerpt below) on Friday and thought, “Ah. That’s it! This is why I must learn to get from the straight jacket to Jesus a little bit faster when I tell my story.”

…I remembered reading The Princess Bride when I was eleven. I’d seen it at a supermarket, and thought I was buying a fantasy in the vein of The Prydain Chronicles and the Narnia books. Three-quarters of the way through, I pitched it across the room, nauseated and infuriated by the torture and death of Westley, the hero. (Westley is revived later on, but I never got that far). Golding’s [sic] lampooning of fairytale conventions is hilarious for adults. But as a child, it just hurt my feelings.

All those sweet ladies (and maybe you, dear reader), like so many Fred Savages, were horrified that my story was nothing but sorrow and fire swamps. You may be growing antsy with the torturous narrative, but I am here to assure you, it gets good! I will get to the good part. Please keep this in mind as the next few posts are…well…fire swampy.

This is a story of victory, of good triumphing over evil. And there’s a kissing part. That I will not skip.

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