The pencil made a rhythmic scratching as its lead point slid across the paper lines of my journal. Quiet moments just before bed are supposed to be ones of repose, but my mind was alive and full of ideas. I had to write. To write things to be thankful for, to write about people and places and ideas These desires to write cannot be simply mustered up or forced–they are just in my blood, something that flows naturally, effortlessly.
Writing is a way to weave words into a gift others can hold in their hand and in their hearts. To describe the beauty of things, to laugh, to cry.
And then there’s the beauty of the written Word for us–that we can write upon the table of our heart, holding it close…
“Let not mercy and truth forsake thee: bind them about thy neck; write them upon the table of thine heart:” Proverbs 3:3