This Monday, I awoke knowing I should blog. I could feel the urge to share a story on this platform, but I did not know what to write. Even a more sorry case, there was no means to write. And perhaps the most pitiful of all, I was battling underestimation.
Having read thousands of words, and penned a fair share of the lot, I wondered if my stories were all hogwash, junk letters that would suit the trashcan better. I felt others were made to write, I, to read.
This Monday, I read a novel. It’s titled Renegade, the third book in the Lost Book series. Or perhaps, one of the fifteen novels that are The Book Of Chronicles, scribbled by Ted Dekker. He’s my favorite novelist, and perhaps, I should write like him.
This Monday, I realized we all have stories. Ted Dekker said of The Book Of Chronicles, “If you were made to read these stories, maybe I was made to write them.” I agree. No one can write a story the way you would, and I’m not saying the sleekness or the knotting of metaphors.
Story, the essence. Stories that breathe and give life.
This Monday, I saw God. Not the man in white flowing garment with beards sweeping the streets clean. Not the fiery One who no man can behold. Not the lion or the lamb. They are all dimensions of God. I saw God as I would see God. In the beauty of nature.
This Monday, brother came home. His legs are unstable at home as a chameleon in a singular skin. Always changing, chameleon. Always moving, brother. But he’s home. And the extra layer of cream is this – he just came from a writing event. I’m happy. I’m still trailing him in the hours spent writing.
This Monday, I decided to blog just as the second hand ticked a quarter to eight pm.
This Monday, I’m saying, Thank you. Thank you for always reading my blog.
This Monday, that’s all.