In my head I feel like all of this died. This place here felt, just gone to me. How do I do this again? What do I say after all of this time? Even now I get weepy looking back at how I tried so hard to do this, to make it work, and all I knew to do was walk away from the tomb. "He means what He says, Shana."
I died as a writer this past year.
It feels so quiet and soft that I don't even know how to explain it. How do you verbalize what it feels like when the most real part of who you are and how you connect with the world is crushed into microscopic bits of sand? And kicked and blown about? Stomped on? Like a massive bullet blew right through your middle leaving a gaping hole. Air blows through it, but you walk around empty and vulnerable and uncertain of who you are.
But here I am. God has been so graciously pursuing, drawing me out, healing me, loving me, whispering to me Truth. Baby steps. I see how even this hard death has taught me much. Taught me about the lengths the enemy will go to destroy. Taught me about why I write and don't write and who I write for. Taught me about freedom and grace and love.
I've had all these people go, "Where are you? Where's your writing? We need your voice. Your voice counts. God uses your voice. Come back!" Unexpected people and unexpected places. I found out someone I've never met who knows someone I know, told them she loves me just because of this place. My small group leader from last spring told me he saw me as a writer and I needed to do that again. And then a few weeks ago, I read this: