not my intentions

I never intended to write. Was never even a consideration on my timeline.

But neither were broken vows or public humiliation.

And yet when I was in the pit of despair, inching through the valley of darkness and grief, desperate for God’s light and goodness, writing was the unexpected gift He placed in my empty hands.

I had absolutely nothing to offer Him. I’d been fooling myself for decades thinking otherwise. Believing that somehow my unrealized legalism and self-righteousness must’ve made Him a proud father. I’d done everything “right.” I’d been “perfect.” And now, all I had to show for it was shame and brokenness.

That’s all I could give. Like He really wanted that, anyway. Or me, for that matter. After all, if another human could find such fault, how could a perfect God feel differently?

Or so I thought.

After months of spiraling, I finally did the only thing I knew to do. Night after night, fingers wearing down the keyboard, I poured out the words stored in my heart at the same speed of the tears trailing down my cheeks. And the more I wrote, the lighter I felt. And the lighter I felt, the longer I wrote.

And I found a lifeline through words that pulled me into God’s word. Then, closer and closer to The Word.

Who heard me.

Who helped me.

Who healed me.

Well after my intended and scheduled “stop date,” it was no secret God was using writing as a tool to transform my life. There was no way I couldn’t continue.

But then I had children, and I was painfully slow to recover from those rollercoaster loops.

And then I had major self-doubt, and I tried my best to bury it just like the unwise servant did with his master’s talent.

And then I lost sight of the reason God had entrusted this gift to me in the first place, allowing it to feel more like a duty than a delight. An increasing frustration replaced passion and love, so I typed out my last forced thought in May and told myself I’d take the summer off.

Summer turned to fall, months bled together. The only shared words came in the form of an obituary and eulogy. And then nothing else

So, I went back to the only thing I knew to do. This time, exclusively on paper. I filled notebooks with sloppy cursive, often in the dark hours of an early morning. A drastically different season of life than when it all first began, but I still I sought out that same light and goodness I knew I would undoubtedly find

And, of course, I did

And I’m so grateful He dusted off this precious gift, wrapped it in His mercy, and graciously placed it back into my hands – again.