Sometimes when I write, my brain is quiet. Too quiet. My fingers wait, paralyzed. To express something that doesn’t feel . . . there. How?
Sometimes when I write, my brain is noisy. Far too noisy. It seems my fingers can’t keep up . . . but repeatedly press the “backspace” key and somehow still manage a lengthy essay.
Sometimes when I write, there is a sluggishness. For life is hard, and my soul is weary, and at times, I want to drink in the Word without pouring anything back out again.
Sometimes when I write, there is great anticipation. A sparkle which hints of spiritual honeymoon déjà vu. When fingers can’t type fast enough, and words just don’t suffice.
Sometimes when I write, I imagine myself creating wisdom. Because sometimes, that’s what it feels like. I try to write about the Word and point people to the Word, but what flows are only my own words. And they’re not that great. Because it’s just me. Only me.
And that’s not why I’m here. So, I click “delete.”
Sometimes when I write, I tell of his wisdom. I speak of his truth. I write about the Word and point people to the Word, and what flows are lots of his words. And they’re pretty great. Because it’s not me. Not me at all.
Oh may my “sometimes” for every and always be that.
[image credit: unsplash.com]