I used to know why I wrote. Passionate, I put fingers to keyboard and drilled out each page, each story. Then the world cluttered. Blogs, social media, query letters, book proposals—it all fell into my plate and the passion fizzled.
As I planned goals for the summer months, my dispassion troubled me. Vaguely, I recalled the day when I eagerly looked forward to each hour, each minute spent writing. Worried, I prayed and put my planning aside.
The phone rang. Dad called to check up on me and the girls. Right before he hung up he asked me if I had started reading it yet, his favorite book. I grimaced and assured him I would that afternoon. Dutifully I kept my word and picked up Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities.
My eyes widened as they flew over the words. I started writing down quotes, making notes in my journal, and simply looking out the window pondering the big truths that fell out of the pages.
Several hours later I set down the volume and my eyes filled with tears. I lived a hundred days in those hours and my world was different. My heart hurt for the poor and hungry. My soul ached for the desperate and despairing. My mind spun with a thousand thoughts never considered before.
I could feel God gently nudge, as if to say, “See? That is what I’ve asked of you.”
Our words are powerful. We can move others. Move them to healing and understanding. Move them to peace. Move them towards God.
That is why I write. To move others. Yes, it is often challenging work and the labor involves much more than I thought it would. But, the passion is not just for a activity, it is for a glory—His glory.