Sunday, February 16, 2014

I am a writer.
I am a writer.

I’ve listened to a particularly mocking voice that says,

“Who do you think you are?”

So I’ve tried not to write, I’ve tried to convince myself and the world that I’m the farthest thing from a writer. I am not a writer, I play with words like a five year old plays with crayons.

I’ve hidden my blog, shut Facebook down, tried to run away from my words.

I want a safer hobby.

But despite my best efforts to dam my words in, they escape. I have to write. My fingers itch to spin and coax these little black marks into lines, to capture the world as I see it, and to take ideas and give them shape and substance with words. Somehow everything in my heart comes tumbling out, no matter how high I build the wall to lock them inside.


I’m done cowering in fear. I’m tired of corners and dining on lies and fear. The best way to fight back lies is with truth.

This is grace. I might never have been. I shouldn’t be here. The odds were against me—but I’m here. And I’m here because the party wouldn’t have been complete without me.

That as who I am.

The world wouldn’t be the same if I wasn’t here. Every choice I make ultimately matters and how I love the people in my microcosm is a big freaking deal.

Because this is how a master Author choose to write me into the story. And he smiled when He did it, not because I’m so awesome, but because I am loved. He’s awfully fond of me and of you too.

There has never in the history of the world been someone who has the voice that I do, no one has my history, my life, my head.

“Who do you think you are?"

Who am I?

I am small but I am a beloved daughter.

Who am I?

I am created, spun, and spoken.

I am loved.

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