Her words whispered softly from behind closed doors and with toddler underfoot and that big pile of laundry. She painted with words that she prayed would bleed grace and shout hope through the aching. And she cried out something desperate when she reasoned she was loosing her ever-loving mind.
And as she wondered if anyone could see, if anyone was watching – her story all broken and beautiful seeped through cracks into lives lived across the street and around the block and over the ocean.
There in her little house on the carpet all worn from putting little ones back in bed again and again and again, she sat with her back to the wall, computer on lap, scrawling out words as she waited for the inevitable, “I have to go potty!” calling.
And after the fourteenth trip to the bathroom, even more tucks back in bed, and an uncountable amount of times uttering words like, “Be quiet. It’s time for bed. No more drinks of water. Go to sleep now! There are no monsters in your closet. Lay down. If you get out of bed one more time…” she opened her heart brave and raw and reaching.
It may have taken hours, days or weeks of stolen moments – all the while believing that she actually had but little to offer.
But she knew that just as God comes into us, He comes out of us, in each tiny offering.
For how many times had she herself been racing through the day, tired and lonely, aching from burdens she didn’t even know she was carrying, and all it took was a stranger to smile at her in the check-out lane and give her a coupon for fifty cents off two boxes of Kraft macaroni, and she wept as if the kind lady had offered to pay for her two overflowing carts full of groceries or given her an over-tired-mommy remedy?
It was there is the seemingly small and ordinary and boring.
When she feared being misunderstood and rejected, but kept typing anyway.
For there in the silence or in the house with kids whining and climbing walls (literally) – she felt a stirring deep in her soul to display more than just a glimpse of the beauty of her Father.
And as her words flowed and splattered – often with blots and smudges shown quite gaudy – God used them to leave an imprint on the heart of another.
For every word stroked across the paper and every shade of color, it was His image that she was reflecting.
And every brushstroke – soft or bold – was all for His glory.
Maybe you’re not a writer, but God’s image is reflected in you. What stirs your heart to display His beauty?