Five Minute Friday - Write

In a week garbled by sickness, weather that's just too cold (maybe not Chicago cold, but it's chilly for the PNW!), and time consumed by writing an essay to submit for a writing contest, it feels so good to draw a breath here at the FMF.

On Fridays a bunch of brave writers gather here to all spend 5 collective minutes writing on a single prompt. It’s a great way to catch your breath at the end of a long week. This blessed, beautiful place where we open our hearts and let words and tears and the inner workings of our lives bleed and flow and dance across the virtual pages. Yes, this community opens wide and invites you in to share. Come and visit and read. You will be blessed.

This week: Write

Go

Oh mercy. Write. The feed flickers; refreshes; her smiling face with one large hoop earring in evidence comes swinging into sight with the prompt and I simultaneously laugh and gulp hard when I see the prompt.

I feel as if I have been pouring out my heart and soul on this very topic for the past several days. Drumming up the courage to do what we ask for here in this sacred space – be brave. Collecting my thoughts and placing one careful word after another to write on exactly this. What else can I say?

What can’t I say about this? This elemental thing I do that is synonymous with breathing. This thing that stirs my blood and makes my pulse race. That calms my heart and helps me sort through tangled situations. That flows in me and through me – what was it he said?

I don’t tattoo my body because my veins are already too full with ink, passion-rich pigments that can’t help but pulse and flow … (Carlos Andrés Gómez)

Yes. That.

I write because I can’t imagine any other way of being. It is my history. It will be my legacy. But beyond that, I remember my father leaning close; speaking in that voice that meant I really needed to pay attention. He reminded me of a story about gifts given, about coins, about talent. Reminded me that to one who is given much, much is expected. I didn’t realize right away that he meant me – meant that he thought I had been given something special. But he believed. So I believed. It was like having my own version of the speech Peter Parker’s uncle gave him. Except I wouldn’t be spinning webs or flying fast anytime soon.

Except that I can.

This is the gift and the beauty of words and of story. They take you anywhere. They allow you to do anything; reach anywhere you want to go; be who you want to be. Your voice grows and develops with you as a writer. It lets you soar.

And in the same way that my earthly father leaned in to remind me about my gift, I’ve started to pay attention when my heavenly Father opens my eyes to His Word and His calling about what I can do – what I need to do with this gift.

These days, I circle close in a community of writers – many of them online, but also in real life. This living, breathing, embrace of faith, grace, and words envelopes and enfolds me. These women who understand that writing happens because it must – they are an echo and a resonating yes in my life – encouraging, praying, uplifting, and reminding that we write for Him. We write to tell His story and to shine a light back to Him. To illustrate His glory as it becomes evident in our lives.

This is what we have been given.
This is what we must do.
We write.

Stop








How to Join 
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