I write because the need flows from me like the air I must breathe in to survive. I write to honor the words he has given me. I write because I am forgiven.
I write because there is a longing deep within the well of my soul that will not be at rest for the day until the words are upon the page. Some days the words are good, some days the words are bad but everyday there must be words. There can be no other way.
I take these things he makes known to me and do my best to show others who he is to me and who he can be for them. I write because I know no other way to express the depths of my love for him.
I write because he gives me these words so I must. I see how that sounds. I’m sure some folks wonder if my rosemary bush in the back yard caught fire or something. Not hardly. But over time he has been gracious enough to take my heart and show me what he can do with it. When self-doubt roars in like crashing waves threatening to beat me against the rocks I hold onto him. I remember the moments when he used his words, his people, and my circumstances to confirm that writing was for me. This work is worth my effort, it is worth my time. So I dig into the words. I push through until my daily assignment is finished because I have no other choice. Words left unwritten leave the worst taste in my mouth.
At times my words cannot convey the best of what I want them to but I am still learning. I have so much more to learn; I have decided that is fine. Someone in this world is right where I am too, perhaps they will want to walk along with me. We can grow together as heirs of the King in the shadow of his cross.
Writing has shown me I can make mistakes, even public ones, and still survive. Others will know about my mistakes, my character flaws, and my sins. They can choose to accept me or not but God has already accepted and forgiven me. My greatest critic is reflected in my mirror every morning; she has earned that thicker skin and bigger heart.
I write because I wonder if other people feel the same way I do about things. Connections are made and it helps me, and I believe sometimes them, to know that other people are in that life moment too. When their mom was sick or their family left them behind some words were put together into sentences that somehow reminded them that God was still there weaving the story of their life into beauty, they were not alone for a second. And it can be enough to help them take that next breath, step, or jump into the future. What a privilege to know that words can do that for people.
Writing teaches me how to love him bigger, better, and deeper. It reveals layer upon layer of meaning as I search his scriptures. It challenges me to be sharper and more aware of his presence in everyday life. It makes me want to be with him, because how can I write about someone I don’t know?
Writing teaches me to press on even when I’m afraid, especially when I’m afraid. My words show people who I am and expose soft spots I did not know existed. It is the riskiest business I know and I can either choose to write in secret or choose to share openly what I am learning through this refining of my heart. Every single time it feels as though I can’t bear for someone to see inside who I am I press on. There is boldness to putting words on paper. That boldness gets stronger when I believe in what I am doing. And I believe in my work, but I am passionate about his love work.
I take these risks because not writing is riskier. To think that one person might catch a glimpse of who he is behind the torn veil because of some sentences he put into my hands makes it worth the risk.
It is always worth the risk.