I miss writing.

I miss writing.
I miss the excitement of an idea “just coming to me.” 
I miss mulling it over while my hands do a thousand other things, like fill sippy cups or swap laundry into the drier. 
I miss the beauty and frustration of the delete button, cutting and adding again to make the words match the message in my mind. 
I miss those exhilarating  few moments when the words are pouring out from me to the screen, making sense and flowing in a way that’s surprisingly lovely.
I miss pushing past the temptation to end a piece because I’m tired of crafting it, and making it to the satisfaction of finding its true ending. 
I miss feeling connected to people whose eyes I’ve never looked into, whose living rooms I’ll probably never sit in, but whose hearts I’ve touched for a moment.
I miss feeling like my words matter. 
Like my thoughts matter. 
Like I matter.

Is this what you’ve wanted me to see, Lord? 
Was my writing casting a golden-calf-shaped shadow over my own heart?
Any gift I have is from you, and it’s for you. 
Please forgive me for finding my worth in anything other than you.
Thank you for never giving up on my freedom.
Thank you for crafting an ending beyond anything I could ever dream up. 
You are the goal, King Jesus. 
You are the prize. 
Write my story however you see fit. 

Photo by MILKOVÍ on Unsplash


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