I remember when I was very young, probably 7 or 8 years old, and I knew that I was a writer.  Well, probably before then.  When I was 5 years old, I drew a story, since I didn't know enough words , about my 3 year old sister peeing in our toy box.  Ok, so maybe I was actually tattling in hieroglyphics.  Same difference.  Writers write to express something.  Sometimes that thing is tattling.

One day, an adult told me that the best writers wrote what they knew.  Apparently I had a little arrogant type A personality in me even then.  Instead of looking at what I already knew, I prayed.  I prayed that God would give me lots of experiences, and lots of different types of experiences.  How foolish!  But, that is me, even at 8 years old.  Long before I heard the adage: Be careful what you pray for. 

No.  I have a wonderfully entertaining and joyful life.  I have friends on many continents.  How cool is that?  Africa, Europe, Asia, Central and South America...I just thought of that.  I have been privileged to be involved in some of humanities most intimate and fragile moments-births, deaths, and many in between.  I have walked through a dark valley myself, and now I walk it to benefit others.  No longer am I afraid of this darkness.  I am loved fiercely, and I have been forgotten.  I have been broken, and I am scarred.  But so much fades when I think about how my God cares for me.

I thought that I needed experiences to write about when I prayed.  Today, it seems rather comical.  What I know is why I prayed.  I prayed because, whether we were on speaking terms or not over the years, what I know is God's presence.  I write about how God has infiltrated my daily life.  I write about how precious and essential he is to my story.  My story is really his story.  None of my story has breath or life without the presence of him.

Amazing when I think, my story has been writing, maybe even written, before I recognized it.  All I need to do is keep breathing it in and typing it out.  I do hope that someone finds hope and grace in my words.  I do pray that they are not empty.  That would be a tragedy.  It would mean that I sucked the life out of his story by writing it.  This is my new prayer:

Father, you have been so gracious to me!  I cannot help but smile when I think of the adventures that we have had and those coming yet.  You have built me with this love of words.  Please use them!  May they breathe life into the dying.  May they be a light in the darkness.  May they be a rock to hold onto.  And may all of this only be for YOUR glory!  Smiling again, I cannot help it... Amen!


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