Week after week, the words just won't come.
As a writer, this is usually the most frustrating thing that can happen to me. Rather than being truly frustrating, though, I find myself in a kind of limbo.
The words are coming, I know it. They just aren't here yet. And instead of grasping for something that I cannot have nor will into being, I am waiting. Waiting for the words that have never belonged to me. For the words that give shape to my head and my heart. For the words that I'll never fully understand. For the words that I will never own, but can only borrow for a moment at a time.
Writing is a gift. It brings me so much joy. But that doesn't make it my right. That's the thing about writing... You can't force it into being. I can't hope to give words to something if God doesn't give me words for it first. I cannot put something still infinite into the finite existence of letters on a page. God is teaching me so much that it is my heart's desire to write. To let those borrowed words flow and to come to know the God I love that much more. But as much as I may desire to write, I am not inspired to do so.
The words are not mine. And they simply will not come.
Instead, in that silence, I am simply reminded of God's blessings. Of the abundance of grace and goodness he has showered on me. Every day. Of family and friends. Of a job that I love so dearly, and moments of silence in God's presence every day. Of laughter and good books and running through sprinklers on really hot days. Of sweet friends who know how to encourage me, and people who bring out the silly side of me. It goes on and on.
Instead of giving me the words to understand the big things God is teaching me at the moment, he is reminding me of the abundance of grace he shows me every single day. He's reminding me of the little things.
Why? I do have words for that:
No idea.
But in it my heart is stilled, calmed, quietly basking in the goodness of God. And I wouldn't trade it for the world. Nor all the words in the world.
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