Photo: View of Deception Pass in Whidbey Island
Excerpt from "The Soul tells a Story" by Vinita Hampton Wright:
"This is God at work. It may be divinity at its finest, because the whole point of the incarnation was that we understand finally and with clarity who we really are -- made in God's image and possessing gifts with which to express God's very self to the world."
I am now reading this book "The Soul tells a Story" by Vinita Hampton Wright. It is a book about writing which I bought from a Christian bookstore. I am filled with hope and belief that it would speak God's message to me about writing.
For years and years, I have been wrestling with the spirit of fear and rejection of writing. I remembered when I was around nine years old, I clearly uttered that I would, one day, be a "great" writer. I was so proud, even then, and too spiritually immature to know that my Creator is the Source of everything that I have. Yes, including any gifts that I have ever possessed, still possess, or now have acquired and still acquire. Maybe it does not make sense much; it did not register to me at the time that there is the One and Only Source of all things. My pride arrested me and convinced me that writing is just for my own edification; neither did it have to be published nor read by anyone else. It was just for my own good. I loved myself too much to expose my gift.
And then again I remembered when at around eighteen, I begged my mother to buy me a typewriter. She was already in America, while I was then in the Philippines. Sure enough, one day I got my wish: periwinkle, brand new Brother typewriter. I tapped on that thing almost every night. My neighbors used to joke that I kept them up at night with the noise of my typewriter. My Brother echoed its cries and laughter most nights while I grew up having acknowledged that insomnia was truly a writer's good friend. But because it was just for show and tell, those pages and pages of nonstop writing and collaborating with my own prideful mind ended up either being crumpled or stored and collected dust and yellowed edges. It was an attempt at practically nothing but pure self-proclamation of "great" even when it was more like "wait." I didn't allow too many friends to read them either. Those pages were precious to me. Those pages were just too good for just about anyone outside of my own selected readers to even peek. In fact, those pages were nothing close to being good! They were created by a soul that idolized the shallow crevices of its own mind; a soul that was hungry for love and attention; a soul that deeply cried for grace and mercy; a soul that laughed at truth and embraced lies; a soul that longed for reconciliation with its Maker but, sadly, didn't know the way.
It was a long journey from my memories of those sleepless nights, hearing voices, seeing things, tapping fingers on my periwinkle typewriter. I stopped writing after I had approached a Literature professor and asked her to read my poem. I was in college and she was one of my idol teachers. In her own words, "it was elementary." She never explained how it could be better. I never pursued it any further. I was too crushed and too humbled to even bother. No, it could have well been pride - again - that made me turn my back on writing. I just stopped and did other distracting things that satisfied my time alone with insomnia.
One time I even dabbled on pointilism. It was during those formative, creative years when I drew portraits and some landscapes with colored and charcoal pencils. But this pointilism idea led me to using a sewing needle as my paintbrush on my drawing board. I used red and black and thought it would be an amazing creation. I drew without any forethought as to what I would put down on paper. Pretty much how I did most anything then - without any thought. I let my fingers and hand do the creative move. I finished the "art" and laid down my needle for the first and last time. The picture turned out to be a stick figure of a red man with his hands heavenward, while other stick figures in black floated mid-air. It was a picture of stick figures of one man down on the ground, looking upward and other stick figures hovering up above, then there was the black moon and some red clouds. It didn't occur to me until the next day that it was an eerie art. The following day, I found out that my uncle passed away. Pointilism with a needle quickly became history. And so did much of my art.
Since I am now reading this book about writing that brought me back quite a long way home and years when I didn't know God as my Friend, I now thank Him fully. I thank Him for how I came to know Him, how I am knowing Him more and more each day, and how He has revealed so much of Himself to me. I now know Him and accept that as I seek Him, He will replace - and He already has - those deceiving spirits with that of His Spirit, His Power, His Mercy, His Grace. This newfound power, embedded in my heart, knows that glorifying God in everything is key. It is key to the kind of prospering that God's Hand allows; the kind of prospering that God knows will last; the kind of prospering that is for the eternal kingdom of God. Though I should remember: A key is an opener, so that glorifying God opens doors to God's creative opportunities that unleash the kind of power that prospers our hearts, minds, bodies and souls.
Now I write for the pleasure I see in God's eyes when I do. Now I write for Him and only Him.
