As much as I don’t like admitting it, I was not always a fiction writer. Before I was a fiction writer I was a ramble writer; I was a prayer writer, a theological writer. I was a “Quite solemnly, this is how the world is. Quite miraculously, this is how God is. Quite simply, this is what I write about” kind of writer. And my journals are filled with the living proof of this…seriously, wanna see?
You can’t see, by the way, I was joking. Totally joking…really…stop jumping up and down… Calm… Stay calm.
But you do get a snippet, because, admittedly, I hang onto my theological writing roots. And, when I spend the occasional three hours in the middle of the afternoon, listening to my iPod and sitting by a window with a book and pen in my hand/lap, well…I’m going to write. Because that’s what I do. I write. And this is what I wrote.
Pain in a world of so much darkness. Tears in a place of so much death. Confusion in a land where so many are lost. Why do we not seek Him?
Cries in the long nights. Screams in the possessed soul. Holes in the empty life. Breaths of fear in a world of ice. Why do we not call upon Him?
Prayers from a chosen few. Clasped hands torn apart by raging wars. Gunshots to peaceful people’s hearts. Broken bones and silent sobs. Why do we think He will not answer?
Eyes seen all that causes pain. Lives ruined by past and present. Anger, controlling, like a master that cannot be escaped. The beauty of words, defaced to the repulsiveness of lies. Why do we not let Him save us?
Whispers in dreams. Nightmares in tormented minds. Forgotten reminders. Why do we not ask for His comforting arms, His love, and His refuge?
The final yell of a failing child. The last tear of a wandering father. The eyes that overflow with the emotions of a beaten daughter. The Hope that waits patiently for all of them to come and be held.