My “Great God” Story

My love for books began in my very early years of life. My mother was a reader (still is!) and modeled her enjoyment of the printed page in front of her children. She read to us and took us to the library regularly. Somehow, before I ever began school, I was already reading books on my own. I loved them!

I well remember a childhood trip to the library bookmobile parked in our neighborhood. I was fascinated by this wonderland on wheels and began to browse the shelves for treasures to take home with me. I especially loved being the first person to open a brand new book, inhaling the perfume of binding glue. The pristine pages were stiff beneath my fingers and I gingerly held them open so they wouldn’t crease. By the end of our visit to this movable library, I had a stack of books as long as my arm. After returning home, I stretched out on the sofa, stack beside me, and began to devour the book on the very top, Pippi Longstocking, by Astrid Lindgren. I was soon transported to another land. “On the edge of the tiny little town was an old garden, all overgrown…”

One summer when I was around ten years old, my family took a road trip to Colorado for a big reunion of relatives I had never met. My dad was from Wyoming but had spent a good part of his young years in Colorado. His mother, my grandmother, lived in Laramie, so after the reunion we planned to drive there for a vacation.

One of the most distinctive memories I have of that trip was standing in a dark-paneled room looking at books on a bookcase. As I was browsing the spines, I happened to see one whose author shared the same last name as me, Conner. That’s intriguing, I thought. I pulled the book from the shelf. It was rather thick and titled Thunderbolt. I flipped through a few pages and realized it was a western centered around a horse. After showing it to my father, I was informed that the author was his uncle, my great uncle. My jaw dropped and I reverently turned a few pages in awe. In my great love for books, I had only dreamed of knowing an author. And now I found out I was related to one!

I was already a child who enjoyed writing stories, but seeing my last name on a book spine propelled me to begin creating tales in earnest, from horse stories to dog tales to childish adventures. I kept on writing stories that I would share with my friends, and as I got older, romance began slipping into the pages. I was describing boys kissing girls before I’d ever experienced my own first kiss.

In high school, my US History class had an essay portion on every test. Nearly all of the students failed the first exam, so the teacher decided to send us home with the essay questions for the next test. I remember staring at the question at the top of the page, my mind going numb at the sheer tedium it evoked. I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to picture what it must have been like for the pioneers I was being asked to write about. Before I knew it, I had a story populated with characters playing out in my mind. I opened my eyes and composed, not an essay, but a fictional tale that met all of the teacher’s requirements to answer the question thoroughly. When I added the final period, I read through it, then sat back with a sigh. That was actually kind of fun! I thought. And when I received back the graded test a few days later, scrawled across it, below the A written in red, was a note: Excellent job, very creative!

That same school year, I met with my guidance counselor to talk about plans following high school. I told him I planned to attend college and wanted to become a writer. He frowned a bit and shook his head. “You don’t go to college to become a writer,” he cautioned. I was crushed by his dismissal of my dreams, and I left his office with my shoulders sagging in defeat.

Two years later, I did attend college, but I pursued a degree in Liberal Studies to attain my teaching credential, with the intention of going on from there to get my Masters in counseling. I wanted to be the kind of mentor students could turn to for support and guidance and help to follow their dreams.

As it turned out, I never took the steps to achieve that higher degree. Over the next several years, I did a great deal of academic writing to share with my fellow teachers. And pressed into the back of my mind was the hunger to write a book of my own. Teaching students kept me very busy during the school year and my summers were usually full taking courses to add to my classroom repertoire. I kept thinking I’d squeeze in some time to write a book, but time slipped through my fingers.

Fast forward to 2009, and I found myself at the ICU bedside of Randy, my husband of nearly 24 years. He had been extubated a few minutes prior and the family was gathered around visiting with him. I watched as he laughed and spoke short sentences in a raspy voice with each of his children. Suddenly, his grey-blue eyes lasered into mine. “One book for you,” he said intently. My head cocked to the side in confusion. “One book for you,” he said more slowly. “Get it?”

Suddenly I realized what he meant. He knew my love for books and my desire to write one of my own. He wanted me to write about us, our story. We had had a marriage filled with ups and downs, hard times interspersed with happy ones, and now we were faced with the ultimate test of our lives and our faith. I nodded. “I get it,” I said, tears pricking the backs of my eyes.

I needed to tell the story of how our marriage had survived the hard years of his physical pain from injuries and opioid use, his unexpected emotional outbursts that brought me to my knees, the agony of hateful and abusive words, and in time, how God in His great grace, molded our marriage into the one I had always desired it would be.

Randy slipped from this life into the arms of Jesus only two days later. I knew he was more than ready to see his Savior face-to-face, and in the great loss that I felt, I also had a deep sense of joy knowing he was out of pain and at peace.

It took me a few years after his death to begin writing our story. I had a lot to process emotionally, and in fits and starts, I tried to put my thoughts into words. It wasn’t until this year, 2025, that I can finally see a clear vision of what my memoir needs to say.

Sometimes when people find out I am writing a book, they ask “What’s it about?” I tell them I am writing my Great God story. It’s not that my story is great, but my God is! It is only by His amazing grace that I not only survived the painful experiences I went through, but I have thrived. God is good, all the time!