I’ve done this countless times now. I sit down with a full heart, weighty thoughts, and much to say, and find myself unable to externalize even a fragment of the story being divinely typed upon intangible pages. As line upon line of type multiplies in my own story, the literal page grows more white and more blank.

So instead of yet again attempting to discourse on the author, of whom I apparently know increasingly little, I turn to the Author who does not change.

He writes hard. He uses the raw and broken to tell a story of truth and beauty. His pages are tear-stained. His pen is unceasing, and His words are written in light.

This story could only be penned by the gracious hand of One whose ways are for good and not evil. These twists and turns could only be guided by He who knows the end of all things. There is unspeakable grace in knowing the Alpha and Omega, who wrote the first line and will write the last, whose goodness marks every page, and whose love fills every margin.


4 thoughts on “Ink.

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