tuesdays unwrapped

Having known each other for twenty minutes, we sat like two old friends and gushed about dreams and ideas. I listened as she shared, telling me what she wanted to do, who she wanted to help. Her face lit up, in that way that only comes from dreaming big. From holding an idea, a venture, that just might be "too" big, but being audacious enough to hold it tight and run with it.

Flames flashing and illusions tricking our eyes. Fire dancers and magicians. Accuracy veiled in excitement. With each movement that seemed to exhale - this is me and this is what I love to do.

Talk of a certain pond over breakfast. A meeting of two writer's hearts. Encouragement to take the next step, without knowing what step two may be.

Glimpses of dreams. A friend that changed her major, leaving security behind. A girl's meek smile as she shares of her love for composition, her heart music pouring forth as she opens up. A younger brother's excited plans to create, clay ready in hand.

The sight of a painting, the acoustic strum in a certain song, the folds like fabric in a statue long since crafted. The excitement of the soul as it experiences art. Here I am reminded of His heart for the created. His created, His children. I am overwhelmed to ponder, my enjoyment of the work of hands, is minuscule in light of His adoration. The work of His hands, His enjoyment at the sight of His creation, is undaunted, abundant, pure in appreciation.

He wanted us to meet Him there. He placed within us a heart that beats a little faster in the presence of a gift. He invites us to share with Him. To recognize the desire placed and open hands wide to see and be moved by Him in it.

His heart is to teach the created the love of the Creator. May we turn and open hands wide, desires in palm, and surrender.

That we may know Him deeper.

this is not my story

"Do it. Do it. Do it."

"I want you to write a book."

"Wait, please write a book. What would it be about?"

A few weeks back I sent out a text to a few close friends. It simply said, "I want to write a book." It's funny really, because I never seriously considered this before. Unless you count third grade when I thought I was going to write first date and love stories forever. That did in fact happen. In third grade. Third grade. What eight-year-old writes about a romantic first date? None? Oh wait, no I did. While slightly embarrassed by my own love-sick elementary past, recalling that motivates me to pull out my old elementary school notebooks. There's got to be some good stuff in there, laughable at the least. 

I suppose that goes to show, I love to write. It's the one thing in school I've always enjoyed. Fiction writing exercises in fourth grade, argument essays in eighth, poetry in twelfth. I once wrote an entire literary comparison piece in an ABAB rhyme scheme, because I could and I thought it was super fun. 

It's one of those things that feels as natural as waking up. That must be akin to how the conductor feels as he raises his arms to shepard a symphony in playing their notes, notes like wind brushing across the listeners ears. He knows what is about to pour forth and knows the hilltop the audience will be taken too. Writing like music is a chance to give voice to emotion, it captures, transports, and is not confined to one form. 

I hadn't seriously considered writing a book until Jesus and I had a talk. At the end I made the decision I would. Not because I feel I have an abundance of wisdom to be poured out or some incredible story to be deliciously divulged. Part of me wants to write for the sake of writing. Jesus is also teaching me that He has placed desires in my heart for a reason, and the desire to write is not within me so I can talk and dream about how it'd be nice to write more. Then simply leave it at that - a thought, a conversation. Much like love is not truly love until it is in action. It can indwell us, but it isn't fulfilling all that it was purposed to until it is shown. Love, like paint in a tube, isn't art until it is placed upon canvas.

And here I am. Paint brush raised and feeling whimsical just standing in front of this easel. The words I know for sure are "This is Not My Story". I cannot claim the words, for they are not my own. The setting and characters were chosen by the Author Himself. As I raise paint-dipped brush to canvas, I breathe deep the breath of the conductor. Exhaling as I begin, knowing all that can be anticipated is an experience that will leave me captivated. Enthralled by the matchless love of a Father that knows my desires and calls them forth. So here I go. I'm going to write a book.