Tonight in bed I had three piles of books in front of me. How to write mysteries. How to write memoirs. How to write your mother because you certainly don't call her enough.
You get the picture.
I'm about ready to go into a full blown hissy fit trying to figure out how to write. Finally, I get so sick of the thought of telling stories I just shut down.
Shutting down is a good thing.
In the stillness that comes after I've exhausted all my energies and am still none the wiser about what to do, or write, Jesus shows up.
He lets me know that He is the beginning of my story. He my epiphany, and my good ending. He is the prequel and the sequel, the commentary, and the notes. He is the bonus features, the joy of writing once again, the new thing, my acceptance, and my big fat royalty check.
He is the soft light on my face easing me back into consciousness when I've fallen asleep propped up on pillows with the ibook on my chest. He is the whispered, "stop now," when memory threatens to swallow me up like Jonah's big fish. He is that something in the dark that makes me feel less afraid.
There is no story without the Word. There are no psalms or songs or prophecies that he is not in. I string together letters like beads, but it is He that is the design.
I guess that means I already know something that the Writers Digest series can't teach me. Or rather, I know Someone who loves me beyond my ability to tell a tale.
I love Him for that. I love that I am His story, and He is mine, and for Him that's enough! And that's enough for me.
At least it's enough for tonight, and that's all I've got.