by e

i’ve been procrastinating on writing a sample for deaconess k.

why do I fear being read? Or rather, fear having my work read. Why I yearn so badly to write, yet I despise my piece in comparison to another?

writers are often too self-critical aren’t we? That is true to me; if. If I saw myself as a writer.

David – the son of Jesse, wrote the psalms in expression of his deep yearnings and groans. I do not know the medium on which he writes, but I do know that his words have survived thus far for me to read.

I guess I want to lend my own perspective to this complex world we live in. Everyone has an opinion, a point to make, a comment. Yet, I want to lend my own eyes, my voice (if that’s even possible), to allow others to see the way I see, to speak of what I speak. In short, I long to be understood. Perhaps, not to be validated but vindicated – that my voice did matter.

Today, I write again, not so much to prove something. But if there is anyone reading right now, I would love to take a journey with you – to travel with me as I document my growth process, as a person playing with a pen, as an artist in training and as a fellow pilgrim on the journey back home.

I know, we did not choose to be far from home – the paradise where we should belong. We did not choose the journey of which we are called to embark, while we did not choose our starting points, we could choose how we walk this journey and with whom we’re walking it with.

We are called to adventure, men or women, man or child. We were called to a heavenly adventure – life was meant to be explored, not rushed through.

And the mistakes we make in this life are simply detours which lead us back to our original adventure – one that started with the Lord since we left our mother’s womb.

And explore we must – the journey is long but the experience lingers longer. Life was meant to be, after all a holiday with Jesus till we head back home to paradise.