To write, to write upon a sheet of milky white. Why seem you so daunting? Once you and I, Dear Pen, were friends of many and various climbs. Exploring and adventuring through other’s lives and ideas of seemingly great purport. And yet I do to you what I have in store for all my talents. A nicely packed away place where you shall only be touched if eternity be within your grasp.
It is not the lack of reading as I have once told myself. “If only I were reading more my fingers would be inspired as before.” But alas this is not so. For a reader may read only that which she is inspired to read and I feel at the same loss for reading. Picking up a book and setting it down just as quickly.
There is so much to do! To think of doing! The future is looming up before me begging to be solved and accomplished. Things of the Kingdom are screaming for my attention. What have I to do with a pen who can only write things which have no eternal importance?!
And yet though they scream to me my hands seem tied and I am not free to do anything but remain sitting bound by my thoughts of all I want to do.
In a time when time is short on all sides and nothing is free but sacrificed for I must write! I must share this passion which spoken words and expression have such difficulty revealing of me. They must not say as they lay me in the grave. “She was sweet and kind. She was always pleasant yet never really fought for anything.” They must KNOW there is a fire that burns within me which will not let me hold still. It calls me by night and day “Be better, Be prepared!” for great work, no matter how small, must be placed at my Master’s feet with the enthusiasm of a child who has helped in such a tiny way her Father in His Great and Eternal work. I long, I strive, I must help build His kingdom!
And so Pen, if you want a place in my life, must you.