Wednesday, April 9, 2014


By Angeline M Duran Santiago

As I sit here and glue the scenes twirling in my head, I have one specific person in every picture. He may not know it is him I am thinking of as I write, but I know that his story is not one that stands alone. He is but the representation of many, many stories, many books with blank pages, incomplete.

To look at him, one would say, "Aw, I feel so bad for him." You'd think his life was over the moment the world came crashing down on him and the planets whirled out of control. (Yes, I can be a bit of an exaggerator-but, you get what I'm trying to say, right?) To look at his past, just a few years ago, you'd probably see his life walking out the door, done deal, over and good bye. The scars on his skin are a reminder of death coming to visit as a spectator for days, weeks, and even months. The vivid reminders of a pain that is indescribable, a journey into the darkness where he cried out for death, and yet, in the midst of asking the very constellations to come crashing down upon him and finish him off, somewhere, the fire of his faith remained lit.

His book is incomplete. His story is not over. The results of his past are not the predictors of his present and most definitely no indicator of his future. His story is still being written each time he wakes up and steps into his new beginning. Each day he embraces his destiny and purpose in the middle of dealing with the effects of sickness striking him down, depression pushing him down, and every presence of hell itself challenging him to believe, one more day.

This is not only his story I see. I walk into different stores and walk towards the notebooks, the journals, the diaries and drawing pads, all blank, all empty, all calling out to me. They're not asking me to write my story, but they each have someone's name on them and it's their story that is incomplete. Someone forgot to write victory. Someone forgot to write healed. Someone forgot to write stronger than before. 

I cover my ears and want to run out, but I don't want anyone to think I've stolen all those empty pages calling out to me. I walk away and see the faces of those who have over come, those who have made it through the battles of overcoming surgeries, cancer treatments, organ transplants, waking from comas, and still staring the grave down with an attitude, "Yeah, right, death, where is your sting?"

This book is incomplete. You have to finish it. Maybe it's sharing with someone or just writing it down through a song. Perhaps there's a poem waiting to be released or a piece of artwork waiting to be painted as you begin to find the way to express and share your life.

It is not over. Just because you can't get up to do what you used to do or what you want to do doesn't define infertility or paralysis. Just because your life hasn't turned out the way you dreamed it would when you were younger doesn't mean you have to believe there's only one way your life could have turned out. God is a God of the unexpected, of glorious miracles happening every day. You are that miracle. Your life is a miracle. You are the miracle I see in my mind when I write, always.

My heart is filled with joy when I see you take your place and rise to be what no one expected you to be. I'm so glad your book is incomplete, because the world needs to see what God is doing in you, what God has done, and what God is getting ready to do! (Exciting!) So  go ahead, live life full of expectation because your life matters. It does, it does!

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Angie Duran loves encouraging and writing to remind you of your purpose and that your life is a gift to this world.



By Angeline M Duran Santiago  The storm rages on and the winds buffet the lands in violent twirls. Some say it is the season for hur...