In my hand, I can sense, your desire to emerge. Black liquid that splashes upon the pages that call out to you, "Come."
Empty canvas, tan colored sheets, welcoming the black fluid that is dotted, lined, scribbled and drawn like tattoos on the body, beginning a story.

Words. The words I have for so many and for so few. Words that should be silent and yet need to be spoken if only to the darkness of my own journal. So many things that should be written and yet so many things written that will never be read, that will never be seen, and that will be read but never understood.

Pen, as I sit here, take each word yet unspoken but buried in my heart, and create a tapestry of love, words that give life, lift up and restore. Parchment that allows each letter to become a word of hope upon your back, arise and cry out until everyone that is supposed to see you, turns away changed because they've been in your presence.

The words of life pushing to come forth and on to the paper, come from the One whose words have always given me life. The words in my heart for the broken and in my mind for someone who is confused and afraid, all those words come from Him, who is The Word, who is Life. He directs my pen and I am only the hand, ready to say, "Yes."
Hurry, pen, and write my words. You hear them as I sing. Move on the page and conclude with this, that God truly loves them, so very much.
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