Love is the answer . . .

Lately, I've been feeling the need to write. Every once in a while I get this way, but I've never been able to write in a way that I feel truly expresses that which I am feeling/thinking/pondering/etc.

When I was in elementary school, I won the Young Author competition every year except one. That one year I lost to a girl who wrote about a talking dog. For whatever reason, that talking dog story beat out my dead boyfriend novella; six chapters of a sixth grader's perception of what it would be like to lose a teen love. (I wonder why it didn't win?) Maybe this is where my frustration began. I thought that it was my best work up to that point in my life, but I essentially stopped writing stories after I lost. Overdramatic? Yes. But the truth nonetheless. I dabbled shortly in angsty poetry during some of the more trying times of my teenage years, but I never thought that my work was any good. I just couldn't make my words do what I wanted them to do. Of course, it didn't help that I had friends who could write beautiful poetry, intelligent and well-crafted fiction; mine always paled in comparison. Frustrated, I subconsciously restricted my writing to only assignments in AP English, and most of those weren't even altogether that good. Then came college, and the desire to write almost died completely, where papers and essays were due three times a day for every class. No kidding.

 (.okay . . . so, maybe it was only a couple papers every few weeks for my gen ed classes and a few of my music theory classes, but still. We wrote papers all. the. time. Might as well have been three times a day)

But, I've been feeling it lately. Like God is gently whispering to me that I need to write. Maybe somebody needs to read this. Or, much more likely, He just knows that this is the best way I have to sort through my thoughts. Working in the 'hood, I see a lot of hurt in my students. Like the boy whose sister was murdered two years ago because her killers mistakingingly thought that it was his eldest sister. Or my kids who are living in the homeless shelter with mom, who has another one on the way. Or the sweet girl whose mother most likely beats her and she was nearly in tears when she had to leave her grandma's house to go back home. No wonder my kiddos have anger issues.

But, I see a lot of joy, too. A lot of pure, authentic, and unadulterated joy. And those are the moments that I live for, the moments when I know that God (in His infinite grace and mercy) really did know what He was doing when He gave me the desire to teach in the inner city. And that He really is, despite and because of all of my flaws and my stupid desire for control, in control and causing ALL things to work for the good of those who love Him and are called according to His purpose (Rom 8:28).

So, here it is. Or, perhaps more accurately, here I am. Starting something new and definitely out of my comfort zone because it leaves me so vunerable. So, why should I write?

Because of His love. His love is the answer.