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I stare giftless, at the missing words on the white screen. I am trying to write a book. The one I can’t seem to scribble one noun, or spell out one verb, on her forsaken pages. She’s folding arms in the corner, rebellious and unwritten, while I plot a funeral and plan a different future. God enters, with a gift from His heart, “There is beauty in your writing.”

“How can there be? There are no words yet!” My fingers gather my hair. I close my eyes as word starvation weakens my soul. I am surely in the valley of the shadow of death. Then I remember, the meal of words, staple He often whispers at the pruning of my spirit.

“You are altogether beautiful, my darling, and there is not blemish in you.” SS 4:7

I sit up. My heart unwraps a gift and I delight. My head sings an epiphany chorus, for it is God’s gift to creativity. I cease the labor pains and give birth. I award the gift of flawless perception to the words of my book and marvel my newborn, my perfect beautiful child. I make faces at her, tickle her with cute little words and chase my finger over her dimpled prose. I laugh and sing. I find no greater joy than to wrap my precious babe in words of delight.

Time escapes my notice and she toddles into danger. God removes His hand and her flaws rage in my head. The time has come to discipline my book. Her passive voice and mixed up tense refuse to listen. Disappointment flourishes. Un-met expectations gear up for a swat and her ideas stand in the corner and cry from a spanking. My voice weeps with God, for I am a lousy parent, at a loss to know how to raise her.

God steps in yet, to discipline my mind-set. I am not a single parent of this book. He is her father. His love for her message burns with passions flame. Hope rises and I remember – this book will bear a bounty of fruit when she conquers the foolish child within, as I do mine. I must wound her and teach her painful lessons. Then stand by her through conflict and difficult circumstances. Deny myself and sacrifice. 

The best my book has to offer stands up against the greatest of odds, where the enemy seeks her death. I must love her at risk. Even if I lose her. Embrace her through the wilderness and the darkest hour, hold her through the fog and have faith that she will grow up, and the discipline will pay off. Always doing what is best, for her.

Her destiny hides in the dark. Perhaps daylight will find her in the slush pile. Instead, my flawless perception goes crazy over her with a loft of dreams – a Christy award or even the Nobel Peace prize. Silly me. I’m smitten with the foolish image of a genius child.

One thing I know, one thing matters most. I pray to write from the greatest gift of all, the gift she longs to reveal at her coming of age – the gift of love.

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