My story is ordinary by most standards. Boring sometimes by mine. And to many, irrelevant. Out of millions of people in the world, why should my story matter?
The truth is, it doesn’t.
And yet it does.
In the grand scheme of eternity, my story is written from beginning to end by the finger of the God who crafted the Grand Canyon. He sets oceans in motion, carves mountains out of the land, sees when a sparrow falls, dresses the bluebonnets each spring in this awesome state of mine. And He sees me.
He sees me. And knows my heart intimately.
Therefore, my story is extraordinary. Not because my readership is extensive. But because He wrote it. And He wired this writer’s heart of mine.
So the past two weeks have been sweet moments of release, of getting up early or coming home from work, putting everything aside and writing in a leather bound book that no one sees but Him and me. And in it, I spill my fears on the page, my hopes and dreams of someday, my reasoning and logic, and emotion that I sometimes try too hard to hide.
And He hears and He reads over my shoulder, silently encouraging me to spill more of my heart. He cares. When the pen stops tickling the page, I feel empty. Lighter. Free. Free to get back to writing stories for others. Or maybe just one.
If I can trust His word to be true (and I can), then I trust He is and will use my story for His glory. Both the story He wrote for my life, and the stories He gives me that spill on the page for the one in the bookstore that had a bad day and wants an escape.
When they read, they see hope. And my prayer is that they will know their story matters, too. Even if influenced by the lives of fictional characters.
Your story is already written, and it does make this world a lovelier place for those who stumble across it. Please keep writing. Please share it. Even the broken parts are beautiful.
Linking up with some amazing women for Five Minute Friday.