storywordedFrequently in Scripture we see where God told His people to build memorials to His work, to set up stones commemorating what He’d done, how He’d delivered, how He’d provided. He wanted His people and those who came after them to remember His matchless power and limitless love for His children.

God also told His people to write down what He had done, so that no one would forget His deeds.

Imagine it: Words as memorial stones.

Isn’t that what we are doing here–setting up memorials in writing, telling of where we were then and where we are now and how it’s only His grace that could’ve brought us through?

If our words are that important, our stories so worth wording, then shouldn’t we embrace the task with joy?

Memorials live on after those who built them have gone. So do our words after they are written.

Builders of memorials chose specific materials. The results would stand for many long years and the stories behind them would go on.

Wording our lives allows them to go on.

Aren’t we always searching for that Fountain of Youth, that magic pill or perfect diet that will stretch our lives into the future? Don’t we seek immortality?

As writers we get to board a time machine—or perhaps more accurately a machine that removes time and affords us the ability to create (we were made in the image of the Creator, after all) something that will outlive our earthly shell.

Journals become time capsules that can be opened and reopened by generation after generation, spelling out our thoughts and dreams and fears and questions for an indefinite audience.

Even now I reread old journal entries and God leaps out from the pages with one miracle after another: a grief endured, hunger satisfied, a prayer answered, a need provided.

This is why I teach life story writing. This is why I plead with people I meet to seek the words and write them down and immortalize life. It’s why I’m always on the lookout for more and better ways to inspire and equip others to put their stories into words.

We buried Daddy in the Pine Grove cemetery. I wore a blue dress with white lace and tulips embroidered below the collar. I clutched the tiny white handkerchief with blue stitching Mama had tucked into my hand in the back seat of the hearse. I heard someone whisper that Daddy had died of heart failure. I would spend the next 20 years carrying sole blame for his death.

And you, friend? What of your story? If you don’t tell it, who will? Be assured of this: No one can tell it like you can!

I am wording my story, and I would love to have you along for the ride as you word your own. Will you join me in this building process? It isn’t nearly as difficult as you might think.

And know this: you won’t be alone.



Featured at Write Where It Hurts


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