On Writing: Leaving Port

I’ve been docked here for a month, wondering if the seas are safe. Never quite, I’m sure, but I’m convinced it’s time to pull out all stops and begin writing again. This morning, the work is beginning in the dark, while my boys sleep. I will press words out onto white, not merely for the sake of itself, but for the sake of the gospel. If the gospel does not perpetuate creative power, I don’t know what does. For in creating, I feel His glory. We work, and that gospel pleasure flows. He is the wind, and we sail to give evidence of Him. Safety is of no account when salvation is guaranteed.

I have yet to get my sea legs under me. Something about being docked — whether in study, or in sex, or in writing, or in the creating of any work of art — causes me to doubt whether I’ve got what it takes to stand. And fear paralyzes until broken by love. And then the threat of being too small is proved a fallacy, for even two pence can be everything.

So I leave the shoreline slowly, writing in snatches as the moments come. As Christina Crook reminds writing mothers: “Grab them with tenacity.”

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