I’ve been writing ever since my dimpled fingers could clutch those chubby Crayola crayons. While my kindergarten friends drew pictures, I scrawled words. Experiments of font and style, even as a tiny girl. My script was my outlet–the thoughts could flow unabridged and raw.
I still write. I process life with my longhand. Yet I know that my words will pass away, bound by time as I am. My Father’s Word, by contrast, stands forever. As Matthew Henry writes, “The only way to render me, a perishing creature, solid and incorruptible is for me to entertain and receive the word of God; for this remains everlasting truth, and, if received, will preserve me to everlasting life, and allow me to abide with him for ever.”
Still, I write–reflecting, though imperfectly, the image of the true Word. And, I find myself part of a community of women who love their Father, who trace out His grace with their words. And in a bold moment, I submitted a piece of my heart, and I got an unexpected message to my inbox–that others might want to read it too. So I’m over here today, writing (my mother’s answered prayer) and being brave:
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