I've been writing for 6 hours, with few breaks. Only, I haven't really been writing. I've been editing. And editing. And re-editing. Reshaping my thoughts, re-wording my phrases, and re-saying every little thing.
Honestly, I don't feel like I've done much. But comparing the first paper and the final product, they're barely the same thing. No surprise, the finished product is volumes better.
Edit.
Rewrite.
Restate.
Reshape.
Improve.
Condense.
Reword.
Redraft.
It pays off.
God gives us little things He just wants us to enjoy.
There are lots of clouds tonight.
The clouds looked like a Labor Day parade across the sky.
Sally and her partner did the waltz.
During the waltz they glided across the floor.
An ordinary boring sentence is converted into a fresh new idea. That's the definition of a way with words. The ability to transform something boring into something interesting. Making a stale idea into a crisp, clear concept. The flair that holds crowds speechless, makes them hang on every word. A certain element of power, being not only interesting and creative, but also thought provoking.
Practice your way with words. Develop the ability to transform ordinary and commonplace into unusual and fresh. You'll be amazed at how easy it is. Give us a run for our money.
Work those words.
I bought two mirrors today. And, shortly thereafter, I dropped large weights on them, and broke them into dozens of pieces.
Then, as if I had changed my mind, I began to piece them into a mirror again. This time, fragmented and puzzled together. Analogies came flooding through my mind, and it was as if gold had been struck.
A broken mirror is like life. Sometimes pieces are whole and clear cut. Sometimes shards are everywhere. But if you look closely, you can always see something good.
A broken mirror is like the way we see things sometimes. If you look at it one way, you just see hundreds of broken pieces. Pain. Heartbreak. Shards. But, if you change the focus, you see the big picture. Your reflection. Which is exactly what we are supposed to be. Reflections. Imperfect and crushed, but reflections nonetheless.
A broken mirror is like sin. When we have sinned, all we see is a smudged, blurry reflection. But, when a strong cleaner is applied, and the mirror is completely wiped, a clear, strong image is visible.
A broken mirror is like a broken heart. It can be pieced back together.
A broken mirror is the way our hearts are supposed to be, open to rearrangement and organization.
Let your heart be broken. Because God will put you back together.
Shattered, but whole.
I'm not overly poetic. But, poetry is it's own entire realm of writing, and since I strive to be a well rounded writer, I have taken a stab at it. Read at your own risk.
Sand. It comes from years and years of waves pounding on the rocks. Currents, tides, and other rocks crash, pummel, and smooth rocks into small smooth stones. The process continues, and the rocks soon become tiny little rock fragments. Eventually, just a speck of rock is left. And that's the sand. And, when the process is completed hundreds of thousands of time, we get a long stretch of sandy beach. Which is soft and pleasant.
Sometimes life is hard. Sometimes pain is necessary. Sometimes we want to give up, because everything is crashing in on us, and making things all together too hard. But giving up isn't worth it. Because, in the end, something good will come of it. If we keep pushing on. And pushing on. And pushing on.
Sorta like sand.
I mow the lawn. A lot. There are many parts to this exercise (literally—legs, arms...).
First, coaxing the 20-year-old mower from its nook. Usually this involves a mighty yank. The wheels complain across the floor before it's all the way out.
Then, priming and starting it. In other words, pushing a little squishy thing lots of times, before yanking on the cord thingy (I'm not too particular about my mower part names), and hoping that it starts on one of the first twenty tries.
After the little monster has roared to life, the real fun begins. If you caught that it's 20 years old, you've hopefully guessed that it's not self propelled. Thus, when just shy of an acre of lush grass awaits the blade, you've got a workout coming, in the form of two and a half hours of trudging.
Back and forth. And back and forth. And back and forth. And there and back again. And... You get the picture. Before long, I'm soaked in sweat, and coated with grass and grime. And I've still got five eighths of the yard to go.
After two gasoline refills, and lots of clogged grass incidents, the lawn is mowed. Only then does the beauty of the big picture come out.
Under the beating sun, in the process of mowing, the back and forth stripes always look wavy. Or crooked. Or just plain bad (and, don't get me wrong, sometimes they are just plain bad). But, when everything is finished, and the whole yard is cut, the finishing effect is usually quite pleasing.
That's the way life is. Sometimes, we make mistakes. Big mistakes. Or little mistakes. Or, averagely sized mistakes. Mistakes, anyways. In the middle of them, when we're tired of living, and trudging, and just barely lasting, things look terrible. But when we're out of the mess, and we look back and see the whole business, we realize that God used all those little mistakes to make one big picture.
And that is beautiful.
Life is little glimpses of glory. A waft of fresh mountain air, a blazing sunset shoreline, a black sky full of radiant stars.
I'm all wonder—how can little me serve a God this big? A God who whispers the winds into existence. Traces the hills into being. Even collects the dust, and forms mankind.
He knows me. He loves me. He cares for me. And for multitudes of others, as well. So many little people, one great God.
Realization—I can serve Him, because He lets me. Not because of my great merit, but because of His great love.
And by that, I am amazed.
Awestruck, actually.
It rings in our ears. Harmonizes with our souls. Makes us forget that which troubles our hearts, and darkens our countenances.
First, a slight twinkling in the distance, only the faintest whisper of what is to come. It grows louder, forming a beat and a pattern. Unique. The song has been formed. Now, identifiable, it continues, sweeping us gently into the stream of rhythm. More and more it fills our ears, less mild, but still pleasing. It pulls us along, and becomes our life. Our story. We become part of that music. It lingers in our ears, and echos in our heads. It begins to compose our thoughts, and even our emotions.
Music.
It's soul stuff.