I’m Not Writing. Or Am I?

I’ve been beating myself up lately.

Don’t get me wrong. Life has been good. Actually, it’s been better than good. It’s been fairly close to beautiful. I am doing things I love to do – creating and designing and cooking and baking and encouraging and serving. But every day, as I close my eyes to grab a precious few hours of sleep, I think “another day – gone – and no words to show for it.”

I love to write. I love words and phrases, love cadence and silence all blended together. And writing isn’t coming easily these days. Oh, there are notes and thoughts all jumbled together on pieces of paper, there are partially-written moments that go with partially-written recipes, and there is a children’s story dancing in my brain, just waiting to be painted on a page. But right now there’s no “tied-up-in-a-pretty-bow” stuff happening.

And the undone bow is playing havoc with my heart.

Some writers tell me to just write, no matter what. Some writers tell me to walk away until the colors of the leaves on this particular undone season change. And the more I read, the more I’m reminded – I’m not writing.

Or am I?

This morning, I read Psalm 71. No, David didn’t write about my dilemma in that song. But he did remind me of something I’ve known but have forgotten. He wrote about not dying until he had shared the stories of the Lord’s righteousness with the next generation, with a world that had not yet seen Him in all His glory.

My life is a book for all to read. My writing is just a snapshot of the story being lived out and shared with everyone every day.

Living words – that’s what we all are. And those words are more rich and meaningful than anything ever written on a page.