For many years, I have journaled, scribbling down thoughts and revelations on blank pages in hard-bound diaries, using different colors of ink from pens that fit just right in my hand, styluses that race across the page without a hint of scratching. Smooth and bold, delicate and flowery, the handwriting changes depending upon the thought, the situation, or the mood. Often the words pour out, fresh and new, alive; other times, they must be coaxed, pulled, coerced from my heart and mind, until they are birthed into the harsh light of revelation.
I write them down, putting pen to paper, fingers to keys, letter after letter appearing on crisp white paper, on iridescent screen, forming words, sentences, thoughts, hopes, Truths--because He often shows up in the midst of the strokes of the pen, the click of the keyboard. The journey from His revelation to my heart is not an easy one. Indeed, the distance is often measured in pica--ten characters to an inch, character upon character, word to word, line after line, until a page, nay, pages are filled, and Truth is revealed.
He speaks to me, His words whispering, pouring, flowing into me, flowing from the nib, staining the paper, coloring my heart with the red tincture of His love. He is the Author of my life, scrawling His signature across this human realization of His forgiveness, His hands autographed with my sins. He is rewriting and refining me, perfecting His finished piece so that I am His new creation, reflecting His mercy and love.
I am His composition.
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