New Beginnings

An Article by: Cheyenne Wagoner

There’s something about the start of a new school year that always feels like a fresh chapter.

In our house, it means earlier mornings, packed lunches, busy schedules, after-school activities, and definitely more coffee. It's a season of routines, new adventures, and learning. This year, though, it feels like I'm turning a page too.

I'm taking a chance on something I've wanted to do for a long time. It's a little scary because, if I'm being honest, I don't really know exactly where this road leads. Mary Kay always said, "Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you'll land among the stars."

The funny thing is... I'm not even sure I'm aiming for the moon. Maybe I'm just aiming for the outer atmosphere.

Because the truth is, at 36 years old, I still don't know what my dream job is. I guess I'm still growing up too.

But I do know one thing: I'll never discover where I'm meant to be if I never take the first step. Every opportunity starts somewhere, and sometimes the bravest thing you can do is simply begin.

This summer, though, something happened that completely shifted my perspective.

It was one of those moments that sneaks up on you. The kind that leaves you sitting in your car afterward with tears streaming down your face because suddenly everything makes sense.

Back in April, I walked into a first-grade classroom carrying a stack of books that had literally just come off the printer in my tiny office and about twenty crocheted Ollie Octopus plushies.

It wasn't a bookstore event. It wasn't a big author visit. There were no cameras or crowds.

Just seventeen six- and seven-year-olds in a classroom I had walked into many times before.

And I almost didn't do it.

Standing outside that classroom door, I questioned everything.

What if they don't like the story?

What if they laugh at me instead of with me?

What if they think it's silly that an adult wrote a book about a little octopus?

Those seventeen little faces were probably the most intimidating audience I've ever had.

But I walked in anyway. I sat down in front of those kids and read my story.

Not someone else's. Mine.

When I finished the last page, they didn't want me to stop.

They laughed in all the right places, pointed out their favorite parts, asked questions, and begged me to come back and read another one.

Every bit of fear I carried into that classroom disappeared.

Then I spread the Ollie plushies across the floor and told each child to pick one to take home for the summer.

Watching them carefully choose their new little buddy was one of the sweetest moments I've ever experienced.

At the time, I just thought it was something fun.

Maybe I'd make a few kids smile. Maybe they'd have a reading buddy.

Maybe one of them needed a friend to hug during a hard day.

I walked away thinking I had simply done one small good deed.

I kept writing more books. I got those books published for everyone to read.

Operation Ollie slowly grew into something I never imagined. But I never really understood the impact.

Until Sneak-a-Peek this summer.

As I walked through the school hallways, I suddenly felt two little arms wrap tightly around my waist.

"MISS CHEYENNE!"

I looked down and there she was—one of the little girls from that classroom.

She was absolutely beaming.

"Don't move!" she yelled before taking off down the hallway.

So... naturally I didn't.

A few moments later she came sprinting back toward me with something stretched out in front of her.

It was Ollie. Not a brand-new Ollie. A very well-loved Ollie.

His yarn was worn. His little body looked like it had been hugged a thousand times.

He looked exactly like a stuffed animal should after a year of being someone's best friend.

Then she started telling me all about him.

How Ollie lived in her mom's purse so he never missed an adventure.

How he went on road trips.

How he comforted her little sister when she wasn't feeling well.

How she made up stories about him every night.

How he had become part of their family.

As she talked, her mom caught up with us.

She smiled, introduced me to the rest of her family, and said,

"This is the lady who made me Ollie."

Then she quietly set her purse on the floor...

...and hugged me. One of the most sincere strangers hug I have ever experienced.

She told me something I'll never forget.

She said Ollie had helped her daughter come out of her shell.

She was trying new foods.

She wasn't afraid to go new places.

She had become more willing to try things that used to scare her.

All because of one little crocheted octopus.

And in that moment...

It hit me.

Sometimes we think we're creating something small.

A stuffed animal. A children's book. A kind gesture. Fifteen minutes of yarn, stuffing, and a little love.

But we don't always get to see where those small things go.

We don't always get to witness the ripple effect.

We don't always realize that what feels ordinary to us becomes extraordinary to someone else.

I sat in my car afterward and cried. Not because I was sad. Because for the very first time... I understood.

The things that fill my heart aren't always the biggest accomplishments on paper.

They're the quiet moments. The conversations. The opportunities to serve. The chance to make someone feel seen. To take away a little fear. To offer comfort. To encourage someone to be brave.

Over the past several 2 years, so many people have encouraged me to take this next step. Their words have stayed with me, and little by little I've started feeling what I can only describe as gentle nudges from God.

Maybe that's what He's been trying to show me all along.

That I'm supposed to go where people are.

Where I can serve. Where I can encourage. Where I can lighten someone's load. Where I can make someone's day just a little bit brighter.

And maybe, while I'm busy filling other people's cups... He'll quietly fill mine too.

For weeks I've found myself thinking about Jonah.

God gave Jonah an assignment, but Jonah had other plans. He ran because it was uncomfortable. It was uncertain. It was scary.

Now, do I think God is going to send a whale after me if I don't take this opportunity?

Probably not. But I do wonder something...

What if my "whale" isn't something that happens to me? What if it's spending years wondering... "What if I had just said yes?"

What if saying no means missing the little girl who needs someone to believe in her?

The teacher who's quietly carrying more than anyone realizes and just needs another set of hands.

The nervous child who needs one smiling face on a hard morning.

The parent who's doing everything they can but simply needs someone to say, "You're doing a great job. We've got you."

Maybe this opportunity isn't really about a job at all.

Maybe it's about the people waiting on the other side of my yes.

I've spent so much of my life trying to figure out what I want to do.

Maybe God has been asking me a different question all along.

Who do you want to serve?

Because if I spend my life chasing the perfect title, I might miss the people He intentionally placed in front of me.

And after that little girl handed me back her worn-out Ollie...

I don't want to miss another opportunity to make a difference in someone's story.

Even if I never get to see how it ends.

Even if it's only one child.

One teacher.

One family.

One conversation.

Sometimes one small "yes" creates a ripple you never imagined.

Last year, I thought I was giving away twenty little octopuses.

Maybe what I was really given...

...was the courage to say yes to whatever comes next.

So here's to new beginnings.

To taking the first step before you can see the whole staircase.

To trusting the quiet nudges.

To believing that God rarely hands us the entire map—just enough light for the next step.

And to hoping that somewhere, years from now, I'll look back on this season the same way I looked at that little girl holding her worn-out Ollie... and realize this "yes" mattered more than I ever could have imagined.