I try to remember the time in my life when I surrendered to the Lord, recalling the peace and joy I felt.
Where is that now? Was it all a farce?
Here’s the truth… The places, characters, and situations I create are a blundered attempt to pack the gaping chest wound left to expand after every failed relationship. They are a concoction of tropes, fantasies, and marketable content with a dash of my soul and spirit.
It’s fiction. Not real life.
Real life is messy. Full of mistakes and failures.
Dark.
People miscommunicate and say hurtful things.
We all boast a little toxicity.
Sin creeps in slowly then consumes. Feeling desired feelsgood.
Unbelief is a very real thing.
And happily-ever-afters don’t always happen.
My books are a means of escape, a medium to play god over my life. I create the perfect men and speak into the women I wish I were. I build towns where every single woman in a five-mile radius gets a happily ever after without the miscommunication trope or the third-act breakup.
But does anyone ever stop to think that those are tropes for a reason?
Because it happens all the time in this real, messy, complicated life we live.
What if I wrote somethingreal?
Would I still find escape in it?
Would I still misshim?
Would I find myself in the process?
Would God forgive me for living a lie? For trying to play god myself?
I will and I do,I can almost hear Him whisper in the recesses of my head, and it stirs something within me.
Hope.
Hope that I can find peace and joy again. Hope that people may not accept the real me, and that’s okay because others will.
Hope that God is real and He…
He desires me. He wants me to run to Him.
I watch the blinking cursor on the screen in front of me and I know I have a decision to make. I can choose to be honest and raw; I can let my readers know the real me and the very real struggles I face. Or I can choose to proceed with the image I’ve carefully curated.
I can choose to surrender to the Lord and turn to Him for healing, or I can continue trying to piece myself back together all alone.
My phone rings, and I dig around for it, realizing it had fallen between the siding and the cushion of the recliner.
“Grandma, is everything okay?” I ask when I answer.
“Lucy girl. Are you home?”
“Yes. Are you okay?” A smidge of fear works its way into my chest. Grandma Netty seemed fine earlier today when we had lunch.
