she’s a writer.

Words falling onto this page, early mornings and bleary eyes. In school, I study words. At home, I write words. Words have become who I am, they flow through my veins like blood cells on the way to my fingertips. A writer, an artist, a creative brain. Some words taste bitter off the tongue, delete. Some words roll, sweet off the lips. Sometimes I feel like writing is like riding a bike, skinned knees and all. You get up and try again, and again. Rejection comes as fast as the pavement to your shins, the unexpected, stinging blow.

I struggle with the term writer. I’ve been published in a few Redeemer related publications, but that is the extent of what work has gone beyond this blog, my journal or my instagram.

I have random pieces of poetry, written on the back of receipts and scrap paper that I keep tucked away. Sometimes, Fear speaks louder than Courage in my mind. Fear likes to tell me that I’m not enough, that my writing doesn’t matter, so why bother. Courage is a different voice than fear, because Courage allows me to share my story. I’ve learned how to give Courage the ability to speak up for herself. To give Courage the ability to speak up for herself, means the creative side of her is aloud to present itself. It allows her to share these marked up receipts and paper torn out of old journals. To give her the ability to say no to things, instead of giving in. Courage yells sometimes, when I know I need to listen to her. I’m learning how to tune out Fear and listen closely for the voice of Courage.

Discipline is a large part of this journey, choosing discipline regardless of what is going on, discipline in my writing, discipline in showing up, in my running and many other areas of my life.

I’m all about the redemption process, the dirt and grime. I’m all ears for how Jesus has stepped into your life, traded out old for new. I want to capture these stories, in words written on paper.

This blog post has come out of soapy water, and cracking over 300 eggs. It comes from the silence in the big room, with my feet tucked under me, and my shoes off and beside me, the rest that I crave after a busy morning of meal making. This blog post has been a paragraph here and there, between cups of coffee and massive pots of macaroni.

It’s how I fully expect this summer to go, little breaks here and there. Sentences in holding, waiting to be.

This is the cool thing about writing, it doesn’t define me. Nor does being a runner, or anything else I enjoy doing, and make time for in my day. I don’t like to be put in a box, being told what I should call myself, or how I should define myself.

There is something so beautiful about mismatched patterns on clothes, having very specific ways I like my coffee, and how I could happily eat cotton candy for every single meal. It doesn’t define me anymore then being a writer does. Writing is in my genes, it’s apart of this bigger story that I am apart of, for I am the pen in His hand.

anyways, meal planning is calling my name.

till next time, little corner of the internet.


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joy soaked words

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