We’ve talked about writing and pain before and certainly, writing is not all tortuous, or even simply a conduit for tears.
But when pain ushers in words it may very well be that the story that comes forth isn’t just meant for you. . .
In the early nineties I was going through a difficult time, coming to grips with a delayed grief reaction that had kind of blind-sided me and at first I didn’t realize what was happening. Grief is disorienting even when you know it’s hitting you. But when it crawls out of the sub-basement of your soul to lay hold of you it can be most disturbing.
So off and on for more than a year, I was dealing with anxiety attacks, depression and sadness that for the life of me I couldn’t figure out. Eventually, very slowly, a dawning crept in, guided in my estimation, by a gentle and loving Lord who knew that it was time for me to deal with some hard things. But He wasn’t going to let me go through it alone and He also wasn’t going to let me turn back from the pain because He knew something I didn’t; that healing would come by walking through it.
And so as I wrestled with these bombarding feelings of awakening grief, I found myself over the keyboard trying to pour forth my confusion, anger, melancholy and at times, terror. But underneath it all, like a whisper and with the barest of perceptions that something hopeful was actually happening to me, I began to write a story of a desperate man who had lost everything and was crying out to a God who was a forgotten part of his past. He’s ultimately rescued by two elderly woman who bring him help and the touch of fellow human beings. But he is also rescued from himself by One who knew Him better than he knew himself.
As it was with me. Oh, the dramatics of the story didn’t coincide with my own life. But the tangled inner landscape from which this man’s soul was crying out was very much like my own.
I wrote the story in one sitting, pouring out words and seeing everything as it was happening, the keyboard and world around me disappearing. I was tired and spent when I finished the first draft but also at a semblance of peace for the first time in a long while, which is why I thought I was given the story to write. It was only partly true.
The story, called ‘Fanfare,’ was published in a magazine with a beautiful painting to accompany it. My sister got a copy and gave it to her pastor to read, whom I knew. A few weeks later I received a note from Pastor Ted, telling me how the story had touched his weary heart and how desperately he needed to read that story at that time. It buoyed him, and in doing so, let him cast his gaze upward as opposed to inward where sometimes only confusion and unrest await.
I still have Pastor Ted’s handwritten note and every once in a while when the writing’s not working or I become too self-concerned, I pull it out and read it. It’s a good reminder that gifts that come to us freely sometimes offer another blessing for someone else along our path.
So be prepared to whisper thank you…as well as keeping an eye out to see who else may be touched through you.
Which, of course, is the biggest blessing of all.
