
STORY
I remember when it first clicked, that moment I realized that my story was important. And that it wasn't mine. Three friends sat in my 1998 Honda Accord as we wound up a dusty one-lane road to the Pike's Peak trail head. My friend wanted to know my story. We'd only known one another 6 weeks, after all.
I've always been pretty private, my heart coming out more on paper and with those I love than with total strangers, but on that quiet trail in the dead of night, with nothing but dust in my headlights and the faint red of my friend's brake lights in front of me, it all became so clear.
My story is not mine to tell. It's not mine to withhold. I didn't write it. In fact, I can't take one bit of credit for it. Well, maybe the really flawed parts. But the rest of it, the daring heroic rescues, close calls, happy endings, and beautiful outcomes? Total God-moments.
As a writer, you would think that I would have grasped this concept long ago, but it's funny how life becomes more clear in our darkest moments on a narrow road to somewhere. My hesitation to share my story - every messy, beautiful bit - became an understanding that it is really His story. May every ugly moment that He has made beautiful cut through the dust and shine brighter for His glory.

But every day, I grow closer to the God who made me, and every day He reminds me of my worth. He holds the pen, and I enjoy the journey of His premeditated scribbles.
Linking up with the Gypsy Mama.