A man once told me, “To write a book is to write one’s self.” He was right.
When I write I feel most vulnerable because it is as if I am being captured on paper. Writing brings me to the extremes I rarely visit. It causes me to search for pleasure in places unexpected. It forces me to think on my own and walk lonely deserts of my soul.
Sometimes I can only put two honest words on paper – “Oh, God!” or “Lord, help!” These phrases have howled from my souls depths one time or another. When I pen or pray these words it is usually because I have found the edge of my own strength, and the beginning of His. It is the hard days of life when I figure out that His love truly is my soul’s sustainer. It is usually when we get to the end of my rope, and life crumbles beneath the weight of my pen, that I find myself in need of God so badly and finally (nearly a second too late) I call for His help. My call for help is answered when I am encountered by His undeniable love.
When we find the end of our strength, we will find the beginning of His.
How foolish am I at times to try to deny His undeniable love. His love is always undeniable, but it is not until I realize my need for love that it becomes irrefutable to us. I refuse and refuse, until I need; then, in my need I run. Oh, if only I could break sooner, or stay broken, would I realize that the one holding the pen is God and He is writing on my life’s pages the experiences I need the very most.
