Writer's Write

When I was in Jr. High...or maybe High School, my mother bought me a type writer so that I could have a place to pour out all of my words. I loved the clickety clack of the keys as they pressed each letter onto the clean white paper. I remember wishing I had glasses so that I would look more the part of a writer. As an actress in high school theater productions, looking the part was very important.

I had so many dreams back then, about taking the stage...finding solace in playing the part. Quiet evenings, letting the words flow from my heart onto the pages of the books I would publish. I was all about peace and love then, enamored with the hippie philosophies of the sixties (even though I grew up in the 80s!). Maybe I would be a political journalist (and of course, perform on the New York stages of Broadway on the side). Maybe I would change the world with my words.

My political views are much different these days, and based on different passions. Now I pour my words out onto the computer screen and the buttons make a different sound. I do wear glasses, because my vision blurs after awhile. My face is not the glowing face of the idealistic young girl who dreamed of changing the world with her words. It is rather a face etched with a few hard-earned lines and a few extra pounds. My hair is not the flowing mane of brunette waves that reached past the middle of my once slender back. Instead, it is cropped at my shoulders and peppered with glimpses of white.

I dreamed of taking the stage, writing a book, falling in love, and having a bunch of babies. Some of that happened. But certainly not the way that I dreamed it. I stopped taking the stage of the theater after high school. I kept singing, though. Only the music changed...to songs of worship. I fell in love, and the babies came. I stopped writing for a long time. But the words never left. They just changed...like the music.

I started writing a book years ago, before I knew what a blog was. It wasn't the book I used to dream of writing. In fact, I never would have chosen the path that led to the story pouring from my heart. But, it was the story I was given. The one that I felt compelled to tell, even if just for myself. It's always been that way for me. When the words begin to flow, I can no more deny them than I could keep from breathing, for they come just as naturally. I don't say that as a boast, it is simply the way that God made me. The release of the words for me is like therapy, but even more so. My Writer-Chic friend, Monica, says it well in the header of her blog, "There is no agony like bearing an untold story inside you." Not telling the story of God's grace and healing, of the children of my heart who graced this earth for mere moments, but changed me for all eternity, the restoration of a marriage that shouldn't be, the glory of a life...nay, a generation changed by a Savior...it would be an agony.

I've tried, actually, to put the idea away. When I started releasing the words, James (who is now nine) was just a toddler. Tears poured as freely as the words flowing from my wounded soul. I relived every moment of the journey our family walked from brokenness to redemption, ashes to beauty, death to life, heartbreak to healing. And I continue to relive it every time I revisit the pages of our story.

At first, we were not ready to share our journey in such a public way. Life was busy, and my children needed me here. The wounds, although healed, were still tender...and for Tim possibly still gaping even years later. As God led us to begin Sufficient Grace and revealed the growing need to minister to grieving hearts, we took steps toward sharing parts of our journey.

I have quietly revisited the book project over the years, never sure if anyone would read it, and not even sure the reason I felt so driven to continue. I entered the blogging world, and found my people. People who also need to release their words...people with stories to tell. I can't tell you what a gift that has been, but if you're a blogger or a writer...I suppose I don't have to tell you.

I read a simple quote once in a magazine (maybe Writer's Digest). It said, "Writer's write." It doesn't matter what you write, or in what form...but you just do it. You just let the words flow onto the page.

The story I have in my heart to tell is the one that God has given me. It is really His story, woven into the tapestry of my life. The story that I've worked on over the course of about six years, is the most of Jesus and who He is that I have to give, as I've experienced His grace...and the most of my own heart. I have no delusions of grandeur. I know that I'm nobody famous, and it's likely that a traditional publisher will not ever take a glance at the pile of pages that share the biggest pieces of my heart. I know others have published their stories in the mean time, while mine has been waiting for the right season. At first, I wondered if that meant I should just give up on this project. But, their stories, while beautiful and serving a purpose were not exactly like my own. My story began long before some of the more recent ones, and I began writing it long before. It's a seed that was planted in my heart long ago. Should I put it away now just because someone else has shared their story?

It is mostly written...but not quite finished. I am tweaking it, little by little as time allows. Will you do me a favor? Will you pray for me as I finish the telling of this story? And, will you pray that the Lord will be the guide, that His purpose will prevail, that His story will be the one that is told?