I am realizing that I am not a writer.
That will sound strange to many who read this, but it is true. I am not, as klerch, a writer. I have nothing to say. Yes, the scarcity of posts over the last few months have had much to do with busyness. But mostly, I am realizing they have to do with the a greater scarcity: on my own, I truly have nothing to say. I am only a writer as klerch, daughter of God, lover of Christ. Writing is his gift to me. When writing comes out of me, it is his own voice speaking to me and through me.
I have known it for a long time now--known it in the quiet places in my mind--but a recent time of worship brought it to the fore: Somewhere in the last couple years, I have lost the sweet intimacy that once marked my relationship with God. I am walking with him, sure. Still learning things. But I could not sing the words that once brought me to tears: "Your love is extravangant...I find I'm moving to the rhythm of your grace." My ink has run dry.
And I have had nothing to say.
Ever so persistently, I hear the Father calling me to return to a place of intimacy with his Spirit. I am weary of watching the writer in me--that sweet gift of his to my heart--collect dust in the corner while I soldier on like a walking set of dry bones. I long for his breath to bring me back to life, for him to be writing his own love and grace all over the pages of my heart.
In Christ and Christ alone, I am a writer. It is the greater truth of who I am. May I soon find myself moving to the rhythms of his grace, and feeling his words flow through my fingers again. I know he is waiting there. And I know he has much to say.