The words I write and why I write them.


I smile big, these days. I inhale rainbows, exhale butterflies.


But that wasn’t always the case in my life. Joy was not always the cause for my heart to smile. Some years back, my heart didn’t even know how to smile. Didn’t know that it should; didn’t even know that it could.


I was broken and lost, just as most of us are.

Life. Just trying to get a grasp. Just trying to find my way. Just trying to make sense of the mess and the madness. Just trying to believe in something. Someone.

I found my way by giving in to brokenness. I gave in to a broken humanity. Gave in to a broken family. Gave in to depression and darkness; bitterness and pain—the only feels fierce enough to fix the flaws. To make it all make sense, or so it seemed.

I turned to blue lines on white pages. Scribbled ink in the silence, like a madwoman screaming loud at concrete walls, “Hear me. Feel me. Hear me. Heal me.”

I needed some way of putting off the pain. Some way of sifting through the confusion, like waves parting, like gray skies clearing: I needed hope. I needed joy.

And I burned through journals like land fires in Yosemite. I yelled with God in the pews with my pen. Told Him how much I hated life. How much I hated myself. How much I hated the brokenness.

And God. He told me how much He loved me. And how much He never meant for any pain, for any tears. And how He is good and His word is true. And how He’d wanted to show me joy, if I’d only believe.

I dove into the His Word and I soaked up His writings, like that child in the back of a library holding tight the bindings of the third epic in a series—a child reading and captivated and enraptured by the story. By its sun rising, and its chapters closing, and its story’s ending…And he will never be the same for, he has been shown hope, he has been shown a Hero.

And God is not just a story. He is not just a name on a page, a hero in history.

The proof is in a person like me. I am the pages of His power.

And I write for all to read. I write for the ones who feign God and for the ones who pine for Him.

The whisperings of their souls, our souls, everyone of us. “Hear me. Feel me. Hear me. Heal me,” they say.

“He does. He does. He does. He will,” I write to say.

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