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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