Welcome – I’m Renée Durfield
Hi, I,m Renée Durfield
SO HERE’S THE REAL STORY
I earned my most significant degrees from the School of Hard Knocks, and I wouldn’t trade any of the lessons learned for the insight gained. I pour much of what I’ve experienced into every novel I write, believing nuggets of wisdom can be passed down in story form.
My life has been filled with passion, challenge, and excitement, even having had a near-death experience and a brief taste of heaven fifteen years ago. In 1966, I married the most incredibly wonderful man, Ric, a Ph.D in psychology from Fuller Theological Seminary and graduate degrees in theology. We have pastored, counseled, taught, and written many books benefiting thousands. Ric’s love has been as steadfast as an ancient oak. He has been a model father to our four highly successful adult children and three grandchildren–the sweetest kids on this side of heaven and the brightest stars in our celestial sky.
All of us have a story. Mine is one of humble beginnings. But that is part of the story that helped form my character. Growing up with six stairstep kids in my family, an alcoholic, primarily absentee father, and a sickly mother who died very young, you might begin to form a picture of my upbringing. Also, being a mixed African American family, indeed a taboo during those years, only added to the challenges I faced.
Recently, a dear friend praised my stories as captivating and asked what inspired me to write such fantastical tales. My mind instantly returned to my vibrant childhood, spent in the fog-kissed hills of Bull Creek, Pennsylvania. While spending much of my youth there with my hard-working grandparents, my mind was captured by wonder, whimsy, and the honey-filled words of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnet 43––words that swept me away.
If you ever dare to visit that enchanting place, tread carefully. Truthfully, it may be best to avoid it altogether. But if you’re feeling courageous and must go, look for an inconspicuous turn-off on the side of the road called Job’s Hollow. That was my haven during those years. The only way into the hollow was a narrow, potholed dirt road winding through a gully. Along this road stood shanties built by industrious but unskilled men, each with crooked charm, peeling paint, and a lopsided porch. But my Grandpappy’s two-story home perched high above the basin was the most magnificent structure in the hollow. It had fresh paint. He had built it himself, without a plan or any fundamental building skills, and amazed everyone when it stood tall despite its size (200 feet larger than the other 500-foot homes)! The house weathered many harsh winters thanks to Grandpa’s determination and ingenuity. Grandma often joked about the strange labyrinth Grandpappy crafted called stairs and the glaringly misplaced windows. Although all ten of us kids slept in one room, to me, it was a masterpiece–– a sanctuary where dreams took flight.
Having little, life’s simple joys fueled my imagination. It was the laughter and tears of babies, bonfires crackling with warmth, arguing about where the Big Dipper lay in the dark sky on late summer nights, and bathing with lard soap in the hollow’s cold creek. Even something as simple as a peanut butter and honey sandwich on my grandmother’s homemade bread could bring me immense pleasure. Besides all the chaotic creatures in our home––like the steady stream of stray dogs, pregnant cats, jars of tadpoles, and fat privileged roosters who seemed confused that crowing should be a morning time event and not all hours of the night––I looked forward to trips to Job’s Country Store.
The small building had rough wooden floors that often left us kids with pesky splinters in our bare feet, but a trip to the store was always worth it. For us children, this enchanted emporium was overflowing with wondrous items displayed on an old red and white cracked linoleum-covered counter. Sodas and penny gumballs tempted us, while the smell of fresh cookies and homemade pies made our mouths water.
Miss Angus, the kind and patient lady who ran the store, always greeted us with a smile, knowing we only had a treasured penny or two to spend. We’d whispered that she may have been as old as Biblical Job himself, but she saw the potential in each of us. Despite our humble upbringing and limited means, Miss Angus made us feel unique and valued.
Almost 60 years ago, I married the most wonderful man whose love has been as strong as an ancient oak. Together, we were privileged to raise four remarkable adults who bring us endless happiness––although I must admit, our three grandchildren are the brightest stars in our celestial sky.
And so, my childhood gave me a valuable gift––the ability to witness both suffering and acts of kindness from good people. It taught me to appreciate the wonders born from scarce resources and embrace dreams’ power in shaping one’s existence. That fire still burns within me today, as I am driven to tell tales that touch hearts and ignite imaginations. Writing gives me solace and allows me to create stories filled with hope and unrelenting joy.
Today, I am blessed beyond measure. My once threadbare socks and holey shoes have been replaced with racks of beautiful footwear. I’ve traveled the world, teaching and speaking to thousands of people, and Job’s Hollow is now a distant memory. But the magical nights spent there, with fireflies dancing around my head and dreams taking shape under the starry sky, will forever be a part of me.
All I need is a quill and parchment; the stories flow like a mighty river. Like the words of the Biblical prophet Jeremiah, who declared, “His word is in my heart like a fire,” that same fire burns fiercely within me – driving me to record extraordinary journeys that stir souls and awaken dormant dreams. With every story told, I feel an unexplainable joy coursing through my veins, a constant reminder of the boundless creativity of my Lord and Savior, Yeshua, the Christ.