I love to write. I love how you can put words on a blank page and make it come alive. Before it was just white, sterile and dead. But as soon as the black ink or typeface touches the surface, the page begins to dance. The type of dance it creates depends on the words, it could be slowly crawling across the page, a lovers dance or a secret waiting to be unravelled. It could be a dance of back flips or an action packed tango, skipping across the page until it leaves you breathless. Or it could turn the page into night, where blackness seeps into the pockets of the surface and leaves you feeling cold. They say, the pen is mightier than the sword. It can be wielded in the authors hand any way it wishes, slicing here and there for harm or for releasing the captives from chains. Power is hidden behind it.
I love that writing produces stories. And stories capture our hearts. As power is hidden in the writing, it is also embedded in the stories. There is a narrative that flows through all stories and one that we search for. Its one I love to read. And one I love to write. Its the battle of good and evil. We find it everywhere and we are drawn to its charms, we want good to triumph and evil to fall into the grave never to return. We want the hurt to be bound up and cared for and we want the oppressors to get justice. We want the ring to be destroyed, the evil wizard to die, the witch to go back to her winter. But we know this can’t happen before there is blood drawn. As the pen scrawls this story across its delicate scrolls we find ourselves marveling at the sacrifice that needs to be taken. One to save all. A Guiltless one. One loved by its readers but scorn by its characters. One that battles and perseveres. We gasp and howl at the climax. We find ourselves searching – I wish this saviour existed, I need one like Him. The pen holds still and soon its the coldest part of night. Silence.
Its only when the first rays of the sun peek through the leaves of the trees and warms the belly of the birds, that we hear the beautiful tune of morning. The pen writes a song and our heart swell with joy. The ring is destroyed and its bearer can go home. The evil wizard to destroyed and the risen saviour can be with his friends. The witch is dead and its no longer winter, but its Christmas. Sin has lost its sting and the Son has gone to his Father, leaving a helper to carry us home. We breathe a sigh of relief. We cling to our hope even more. If only there was a saviour like that.
I love writing and I love stories. They can bring so much power, so much truth and so much freedom.