Sunday, 11 May 2025

The Ice Cream Cone That Taught Me How to Write

  

The Ice Cream Cone That Taught Me How to Write

Have you ever had someone believe in you before you even knew who you were?

Usually, when I write, I come from a place of skepticism—call it observation, call it realism, maybe even self-preservation. But not today. Today is my Sabbath. And I say that with the deepest respect to all believers, not as some badge or checklist but as a breath—a pause in the chaos. A chance to just be.

There’s something sacred about letting the world go quiet for a moment, isn’t there? No deadlines. No pressure to impress. No need to make a point or sound wise. Just rest. And if you're like me, rest doesn’t come easy. My brain’s usually running a marathon while my body’s just trying to walk the dog. But here I am, doing my best to stop and breathe—and maybe, while I do that, invite you into a story. A story that changed my life.

Because sometimes, it’s okay not to have a conclusion. Sometimes it’s okay just to remember and to share. So, if you’ll allow me, I want to go back—to a time before I had any idea who I was or what I was capable of. Back to grade school. Back to a small classroom with dusty chalkboards and a woman who believed in me when I didn’t even believe in myself.


A Boy Who Couldn't See

Let me set the stage: I didn’t like school.

I mean, I wasn’t bad at being a kid—I just didn’t get excited about books or writing or anything that involved sitting still. There was one major reason for that: I couldn’t see. Literally. I didn’t know it then, and apparently neither did my parents—not because they didn’t care, but maybe they were just busy or didn’t want to admit it. Glasses weren’t exactly cool, especially not back then. Glasses meant something was wrong. And in a world where kids can be ruthless, being “different” wasn’t something any of us wanted.

So, there I was—squinting at the chalkboard, falling behind, and feeling like maybe school just wasn’t for me. The truth was, I had already given up before I even knew what giving up meant. I didn’t think I was smart. I didn’t think I had anything to offer. And then came Mrs. Dorland.

Now, if you’ve followed any of my writing before, you’ve probably heard me talk about people who don’t see their own gift. People walking around with treasure buried so deep inside them they mistake it for emptiness. I’ve written about that because I’ve lived that. And I almost stayed that way… until Mrs. Dorland changed everything.


The Ice Cream Club

Here’s how it started.

Mrs. Dorland noticed I didn’t like to read or write. She probably noticed a lot of things—that I couldn’t see the board, that I rarely raised my hand, that I wasn’t all that excited about school. But she didn’t come at me with lectures or punishments or warnings about my future. No. She came at me with… ice cream.

She started a reading program—The Book Club, she called it. The deal was simple: read ten books, write a short report on each one, and you’d earn an ice cream cone of your choice. I know this might sound silly to some, but to a kid like me, that was a golden ticket. Food was a language I understood. Bribery? Maybe. But it worked. And I dove in.

I read books I never would have touched before. I wrote pages about what I learned. And let me tell you—those ice cream cones? They tasted better than anything I’d ever earned. Each one wasn’t just a reward. It was a sign that I could do something. A sign that I wasn’t dumb or lazy or behind. I just needed someone to believe in me.

And here’s the thing—at the time, I thought I was working for ice cream. But now, looking back, I realize I was discovering a gift. One page at a time, I was learning how to tell a story. And not just any story—my story.


The Gift That Was Always There

You know what’s funny? Mrs. Dorland never told me I was a good writer. Not directly. She didn’t shower me with praise or hand out gold stars. She just kept handing me the next book, encouraging me to finish the next report. She was steady. Quiet. Consistent. And somehow, in her quiet way, she was planting something in me that would grow for decades to come.

She didn’t try to change me—she simply gave me space to become who I already was.

I think about that a lot now. How many people walk through life waiting for someone to call out the gift that’s been hiding in them all along? How many people need a “Mrs. Dorland” to look at them and say, “I see something in you—even if you don’t see it yet.”

That’s what she did for me.

And I wonder, if you’re reading this, who did that for you?


Do You Remember?

Was there someone in your life who gave you the courage to try?

A coach? A friend? A grandparent? A boss? Maybe someone who said, “You’ve got something,” when the rest of the world was too busy criticizing or ignoring you?

If there was, pause for a second and thank God for them. Because it only takes one person to change the entire course of your life.

And if there wasn’t—if no one ever did that for you—I’m sorry. I truly am. But maybe, just maybe, you’re reading these words for a reason. Maybe this is your moment. Maybe I’m your “Mrs. Dorland” today. Not because I’m anything special—but because you are.

Because what if all that pain and all that wondering and all those years you felt overlooked… what if all of that was leading up to now? To this moment. Where you finally start to believe that you do, in fact, carry a gift?


Resting in the Gift

It’s okay to rest, by the way.

I don’t mean spiritually checking out or quitting on your calling—I mean actually pausing to breathe and be grateful for how far you’ve come. You’re still here. You’re still growing. You’re still becoming. And some days, that’s enough.

Especially on the Sabbath.

There’s something powerful about taking a day not to strive, but to remember. Not to fix, but to reflect. And for me, as I write this, that reflection leads me right back to that small classroom and that small boy who didn’t know who he was. Who thought he was dumb. Who couldn’t see the board. But who slowly started to see… himself.

Because someone else saw him first.


Tears and Truth

You want the truth? I’m crying as I write this. Not out of sadness—out of gratitude.

Because I almost missed it. I almost let the enemy convince me that I had nothing to offer. I almost believed that my story didn’t matter. That my words were just noise. But now I know—they were never mine to begin with. They were a gift. And like all true gifts, they were meant to be given away.

So here I am—giving them to you.

Tears still fresh on my cheeks. Words still trembling from the weight of memory. But also… hope. Because maybe someone reading this will realize that the smallest act of kindness—the “ice cream cone moments”—can change a life.

Isn’t that just like Jesus?


Like Jesus Did

Jesus saw people. I mean really saw them.

The outcast. The poor. The overlooked. He didn’t need them to prove anything. He didn’t wait for them to earn his approval. He just loved them. He just called them. He just reminded them who they really were.

He said, “Come.” And they did.

Maybe that’s what this writing is. A simple call. Come be reminded. Come remember. Come believe again.

Because even if you don’t see it yet, even if you feel like a failure or a fraud or just too tired to try anymore—there’s a gift in you. I know it. And more importantly, God knows it. He put it there.


Thank You, Mrs. Dorland

I don’t know where you are now, Mrs. Dorland.

Maybe you’re long retired, sipping tea somewhere, watching the world pass by through a window you’ve earned. Or maybe you’re gone. I don’t know. But if somehow these words find their way to you, or to someone who knows you, I want you to know this:

Because of your book club—and yes, because of your ice cream cones—I’m now on my sixth book.

Because you believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself, I’ve spent a lifetime trying to do the same for others.

Because you handed me a book when I couldn’t even see straight, I’ve been trying to help others see ever since.

Thank you.


To the Reader

And to you—yes, you, reading this right now—thank you too.

Maybe this wasn’t what you expected to read today. Maybe you were looking for answers or strategy or something a little more polished. But I hope, in some small way, this reminded you that life isn’t always about polished plans. Sometimes it’s just about showing up. Doing your best. Believing in someone else. Or letting someone believe in you.

So today, take a breath. Rest in grace. Remember who you are—and whose you are.

And if you feel that nudge, that gentle stirring, maybe it’s time you picked up a pen. Or called someone who needs encouragement. Or started that thing you’ve been putting off.

You never know. Your ice cream cone moment might be waiting.

And if no one’s told you lately: I believe in you. I really do.

 

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