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I'M ON A MISSION TO HELP YOU LIVE A fulfilled, authentic life WITHOUT FEELING STRESSED, EXHAUSTED AND INADEQUATE.

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Hi, I,m Renée Durfield

SO HERE’S THE REAL STORY

How exciting my life is! I’m almost 80 and rarin’ to go! One reason is––I know my mission. It has always been to help women succeed and understand how divinely precious they are.

I earned all of my 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 my celestial sky.

Daily, I choose to have a positive outlook. But don’t be fooled. My life didn’t start so well.

Those childhood and teenage years growing up… were less than perfect.  But it’s part of the story that helped form my character. With six stairstep kids in my family, an abusive, alcoholic, primarily absentee father, and a sickly mother who died very young, you might begin to form a picture of my upbringing. Being a mixed African American family, indeed a taboo during those years, was the most challenging part. Although we were dirt poor and struggled to survive the years after World War II, I always dreamed of beautiful things, exotic places, and how others lived. Although it became a way to escape the harsh reality of my circumstances, it drove my imagination to heights that caused me to soar into other worlds.

A dear friend recently asked me what inspired me to write such fantastical stories. To answer their question, my thoughts returned to parts of my childhood, where I dwelled amongst the fog-kissed people of Bull Creek in the back hills of Pennsylvania. My hard-working grandparents were the ones who took me in during those wistful years when wonders danced in the air, seeping into my young mind, and the honey-filled words of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnet 43 swept me away.

If you ever dare to venture to that beguiling place called Bull Creek, tread cautiously. Truthfully, you should avoid visiting there, for I am not sure it has changed for the better. However, if you dare visit, try to find an inconsequential concave on the side of the road called Job’s Hollow. That’s where you’ll see a turn-off where I spent much of my youth. The only entrance to the hollow is a single potholed road meandering back into the hills. A narrow row of shanties, most constructed by someone’s industrious but unskilled grandfather, father, or uncle, line the roadway. Most lean crookedly to one side with lopsided porches tacked proudly on their front.

The hollow was my unique place. It was where stories sprung forth like wild, breathtaking tales—towering castles emerging from thin air and mischievous children pranking unsuspecting people passing by. I envisioned adventures in far-off lands and extraordinary realms–vastly different from the country trails in the dusty hollow that greeted me every morning.

My grandpappy’s residence was perched high above the basin, where a bumpy and somewhat dangerous road snaked up to it. He built the house with unskilled hands 1928, room-by-room, without a written plan. When completed, it had two stories––a marvel to all. No one believed the house would stand. We were so proud because the neighbors considered it gigantic, 200 feet larger than the 500-square-foot homes at the bottom of the hill. But stand it did and weathered many bad Pennsylvania winters. The stairs to our lofty, one-room second-floor sanctuary where all ten kids slept twisted and turned like a labyrinthian puzzle. Only a vision-impaired person would miss the strange slant of the house with its unusually placed windows. However, we thought our home was grand, showcasing a sizable but lopsided outhouse nearby.

Yes. That’s where my dreams took flight. I can see now that my imagination was fueled by the laughter and tears of babies, bonfires, fireflies, bathing in the creek, peanut butter sandwiches on grandma’s homemade bread, and a menagerie of captivating creatures. But beyond the cacophony of dogs, cats, frogs, and confused roosters who were clueless that dawn was the time to crow and not all night long, I always looked for a reason to go to Job’s Country Store. To all of us kids, it overflowed with enchanted items. We would lose ourselves in the intoxicating aromas of cookies and homemade pies as we made our way to the cracked red and white linoleum-covered counter. Anyone could see our longingly gazes at the soda machine, soft serve ice cream, penny gumballs, taffy, and jumbo jawbreakers. The old one-room building with its ancient, rough wooden floorboards sent many of us hobbling home with painful splinters in our bare feet, but the coveted trip was always worth it. Miss Angus, a sweet, bent-over lady with the patience of a saint, would wait on us as we made our choices. We thought she was as old as the Biblical Job, but she always seemed to understand the depths of our yearning and the importance of the treasured penny, or two, we sometimes had in our pockets. None of us lived a privileged life or were thought unique by anyone, but Miss Angus’s approving eyes always conveyed she saw the extraordinary potential hidden within us. After all, we kids were from Job’s hollow, which, by definition, carried exceptional merit. Thus, my humble upbringing gave me a profound gift––witnessing both suffering, want, and the kindness of good people who shared what they had. I have been thankful that I came from such humble beginnings and scarce resources. They have powered my dreams and caused an eternal flame to burn in me––a relentless passion to chronicle tales that touch souls and ignite the imagination––to add hope and pleasure to another’s life. I find solace in crafting narratives that shimmer with courage and resonate with unyielding joy. Mainly, I desire to relay the love of God to the hungry and searching. Today, I am blessed beyond measure. My once threadbare socks and holey shoes, which I had to layer with cardboard to keep the wet snow from seeping through, have been replaced with racks of beautiful footwear. I have embarked on countless adventures worldwide, teaching and speaking to thousands. After fifty-five years as a custodian of the gospel and co-pastor of three sacred congregations, Job’s hollow now resides as a distant memory. But those magical nights, with fireflies dancing around my head as I weaved dreams under starlit skies, have forever shaped the very essence of my being. For that, I am grateful.

Please give me a quill and parchment; the tales will pour forth like a river in springtime rains. Akin to the ancient prophet, Jeremiah , as he confesses, “It was like fire shut up in my bones,” a fire ignites deep within my soul––to chronicle extraordinary odysseys that stir hearts and awaken dormant dreams. With every tale spun, I feel an indescribable joy that dances through my veins, forever reminding me of the power God has invested in us to fulfill our dreams.

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