Words, lyrics, poems, pour out of me like music lately, and yet, I feel as though I can barely carry a tune on my own. Gone to me are the days when I sang for the worship team for the church across the street. Now it is little more than a brick wall that faces my apartment in the same way so many brick walls both real and imagined now stand in my way. Now, I'm just one of the 2,000 voices at McLean Bible's Frontline, and yet, it's in my time of despair, when I feel so anonymous, that I seem to hear my own voice so clearly. Why has there always been so much creativity in suffering for me?
I believe I've blogged on this before.
When I was younger, I remember the sounds of screaming - dogs barking, walls banging, dishes sometimes breaking - and I remember how I drowned it out only with the words I poured out on the pages of my notebook. Waves of creativity washed over me so often, it was a wonder that I was first published at age 10 and that the story that won my admission to Duke University's Creative Writing program at age 15 was entitled, "These Walls."
In this, my suffering is a blessing, even though it brings me back to such dark and deep places. I no longer feel numb. I no longer feel devoid of creativity. I am hurting.
I am grateful.