In writing a book...

           I think I’ve always felt a certain amount of fear at the thought of writing it all out – my life, that is – a fear of exposing the ones I love, a fear of hurting them, or shaming them, a fear of shaming myself.  I have always wondered of what gifts God may have given me.  I have always longed to have something special to contribute, something artistic, something that touches people deeply, something that someone may find comforting in the darkness, and hold onto knowing that someone feels their pain, something that leads someone out of the darkness and to the knowledge of a Savior.  I have always envied the singers and the painters and the poets for their ability to express snippets of their pain while leaving much to the imagination.  And, while I have dabbled in poetry and short writings, doing much of the same, I have always felt as if it takes off the edge, but never gives me relief of the burdens that weigh down my heart.  I am quickly coming to the point, now, where I cannot deny them any longer. 

I have spent many years getting frustrated with God for giving me a talent I couldn't use, this curse of writing that can help to heal my own broken heart, while feeling that the words I wrote could never be shared.  God has also graced me with compassion, and while my heart has hardened through the years, I still carry immense grief at the thought of hurting the ones I love.  Even still, I pace the floors at night in want, in need, of some way to purge the pain, and telling my story to God alone just doesn't seem to satisfy.  I feel as though He always points my words back at me as if to say, “If you know this, then why aren't you telling the ones that need to hear?”  I have often wondered which would be the greater cross to bear:  Sharing my story and potentially breaking the hearts of those who read about themselves, or refusing to share this story of great redemption that could potentially be the lifeline to some helpless soul, shining down the light of Christ and extending a ladder into their self-inflicted dungeons, that they may see God’s grace that has the power to lift them out of the mire. 

            In recent months, I have concluded that the latter would be the greater cross to bear.  So, pray with me, brothers and sisters in Christ, whether you should see some glimpse of yourself in my story or not, that I not write my words in vain, but that they may be filled with the love and the power of the Holy Spirit.  Pray with me, that the hurting who come across these words will make room for me to sit with them in their darkness, to take comfort in the life that I have led, despite the sinfulness of so many years, and to take heart that it took all of that - every hit and low blow, every minefield that I ignorantly or willingly walked across in my rebellion, every piece of my heart that I lost along the way – all of this, so much darkness to lead me to so much Light.

“Like a bride - cherished, adored and waited for, so intimate with every title that you love her for.  My God, you never fell in love with open eyes.  You chose to die upon the cross.  You knew exactly what I cost.  I was worthless, but you made me worth it.  I was a slave content to beg beneath your table, but you took me in and made me a son.”  - My Epic, “Childbodybride”