November 25, 2009

There’s nothing I can do now. 

It’s out of my hands and under my skin.

January 19, 2012

She cannot write.  She doesn’t know what to write.  She always knows what to write; but not this time.  She hasn’t written in so long, and as her fingers dance across the keyboard even now, she pauses . . . nothing. What to write, what to write, what to write? It’s there. She knows it’s there, it’s in there somewhere, it always is.

She’s always wanted to write their story, but the memories have faded over the years. Each time she sits to write it, she cannot think of where to start or what to say. Convinced that she will forget a detail or leave out an important part, she surrenders to the hesitance and walks away.

There’s never been a time that she’s known exactly what she wanted. She can never quite make up her mind.  Or she knew it was something she wanted, but was it something He wanted? If she didn’t know, she wasn’t sure if she really wanted it or not.  She’s never really known what she wants. That probably won’t ever change.

So what she wants doesn’t matter. Only His wants matter. What to write doesn’t matter so much. It’s in there somewhere. It always is.