In the last few weeks, I don’t know how many people have told me I need to write – to keep expressing whatever lurks inside of me – to open up and stop being afraid of love and commitment and discipline and life all around me. Honestly, it scares me.
This whole idea of using words to tell a story – to create a story – seems so far-fetched. Impossible even. And yet I find a burning in me that aches to create something. I long to tell stories that challenge and provoke, denounce and build up, provide hope and clarity and vision, that inspire a glimpse of the Divine, with a taste of beauty – of friendship and loyalty, of love and honor, of forgiveness and redemption.
Some books I have read speak to me. Their echoes resonate in my soul. The Power of One – Doc, Morrie, and Peekay in their fight against racism and oppression and injustice… Handling Sin – the odyssey of a man learning to live and love in spite of himself… The Lord of the Rings – a parable of faithfulness and courage… “All that is left for us is to determine what we do with the times we are given – become who you were born to be:… Harry Potter – the story of friendship and loyalty and the power of sacrificial love… The Kite Runner – redemption is always possible… in the brokenness and darkness of life, beauty exists. Hope exists. Forgiveness and redemption exist… “For you, a thousand times over…”
I keep waiting for some burst of inspiration to hit me – to leave me powerless in the grip of some mysterious force larger than myself that enables me to just shut up and WRITE! To hear a voice that shouts to me through my deafness, “Ignore the escapes of TV and books. Give up your computer games and fantasy worlds. Look at the beauty all around you. Look at the precious life that surrounds you. That alone should be enough. LOOK. And then share that, so that others might glimpse the elusive truth that peeks out at you from the music and words and images others create – the glimpses of the beauty and truth that dwell in Love Himself. Let them SEE through your eyes. Give them hope.”
I know that nothing will compel me to write any more than I am compelled now. So I begin to put words to paper. I begin, not just to hear myself talk, but in the desperate hope that a link will be forged between my stumblings on the page and the only source of all that is true, and giving of hope and life and purity. And maybe in my ramblings, the story will become clearer. I can only hope… and keep writing.
“For you, a thousand times over…”