On Writing (and a few other things)

I used to think it could free me

There was a time when I imagined writing, or being a “writer,” could somehow free me. It was more a feeling than a thought. I never would’ve said it out loud. I mean, what would fellow Christians say?? I’d already been lectured by others I thought were farther along in their faith (now I know it was fear, not faith) about the dangers of fiction and reading anything other than Scripture.

For a time, I turned away from writing because I was afraid it was less sacred than being called to “do ministry” in a way that made others nod in amens and approval.

And yet, all along, even when I left the thought of writing as a path, or career, or dream, I was still writing in my head and in journals. I was writing and wandering through writing, learning how to face myself honestly. I was discovering a deeper intimacy with God but didn’t even know it. I have years of journals. Decades of quiet writing that’s worth so much and doesn’t (ever) need to be used in a public way. I remember how those days and months and years felt as they were scribbled out onto pages: fraught with longing, discontent, aching with an ache that wouldn’t go away, the feeling that I’d missed my chance, and fears that needed to simmer slowly in perfect love, page after page, over long stretches of time…

Writing is a sacred work. I think many of you know this without needing an explanation - you feel it too.

Over the last few weeks, I’ve been waking the night with worry. It’s one of the ways my anxiety regularly impacts me. If I haven’t released some of my worry - the places where the people and things I love, the unknown ahead, and my fear collide - it takes hold of my mind and body, trying to find it’s own release.

I wake in the night with a rolling list of clear thoughts and questions. They rattle my mind, my legs feel restless, and my heart thumps a little more loudly. These worries want a way out. Will I release them?

The only way I know how to release them, is by writing. It’s why I have so many journals filled. It’s what I still do in the dark hours of the night when they come knocking from my insides.

Writing is the way out and it is the way forward for me. It always has been. Writing has always begun with a desperate reach outwards and upwards. It’s always been a spiritual activity of sorts. And from this process of wrestling with and releasing worries again and again, through writing, has birthed greater honesty, possibility, connection to my Creator, and creative imagination.

So, when others ask me about writing and how to get from A to B when it comes to books or publishing or something else writing-related, I feel useless and blank. I’m sure there are tips and connections to offer. I know others have better formulas. They aren’t looking for a path towards freedom but a path with a goal in mind. Most people I know want steps, but all I really know and want to say is,

Pour out your heart like water.

I’m not the one who first wrote this. God said it and Jeremiah wrote it down. The first time I read it in Lamentations, I felt at home. I remember thinking, God is a poet! And, God cares about the contents of my heart! And, God is okay with dark expressions of sadness! And, God has time for those contents to pour out, messy as a liquid, soaking everything, even in the middle of the night.

“Rise during the night and cry out.

Pour out your hearts like water to the Lord.”

-Lamentations 2:19

It’s not the writing itself, but the One who writing always seems to lead me to. And this goes for reading other people’s writing (all kinds, styles, and genres), and not just Scripture.

In my experience, writing (my own and others) has always led me towards freedom.

So, keep writing. Keep pouring out. Keep reading what other’s pour out.

May it liberate you to receive and give more love.

Sidenote: there are other ways to pour your heart out like water - if writing isn’t your way, share what is (when we share, it helps others not feel so alone) :

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I wrote the note above weeks ago, and I forgot to send it. Maybe that gives a hint of what life’s been like over the last month or two: full of good and hard things.

Now, here we are at Good Friday and this note doesn’t seem to fit anymore, and yet, perhaps it does. There is a certain kind of death and there are too-many-dark-nights-to-count-seasons that can go along with writing and those of us who try to pour out the contents of our hearts on the page or make it a job or career, isn’t there? That said,

May you find Jesus there with you in the dark while everyone sleeps and morning light feels miles away.

May you find Jesus the next day when life goes on and you are so weary from the night and the eery brightness of another day despite everything.

May finding Jesus with you on Friday and Saturday, be everything that keeps you and wakes you to every mini resurrection story that The Resurrection story has birthed, to come.

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On Monday, I’ll be sending another note with a special (time-sensitive) invitation for my Shalomsick notes community first. Be sure to check your email and look for it!

Photo by Huma Kabakci on Unsplash

I hope you have a wonderful Easter weekend, whatever you and yours do to remember and celebrate. And just in case you need it, I pray you can let go of the pressure to “get it right,” be something you aren’t, appear a certain way, work for your worth, and instead, in everything you do and don’t do, let yourself be LOVED by Jesus.

Grateful & shalomsick,