When God Writes Your Love Story

Don't be misled by the title, this isn't a story of boy meets girl. Stealing from one of my favorite authors, Lauren Winner, this is a story of Girl Meets God. Well, more precisely Girl Reconnects with God after a Trial Separation, but that's not quite as catchy.

How about God Woos Girl? Yes, that fits.

This is a story of God Woos Girl. Like any good love story, it involves poetry. It involves pet names. It involves seduction. It involves both cheesiness and gut-wrenching sincerity. It involves ups and downs, perks and puddles. It involves bouts of insecurity and jealousy and not speaking to each other. But don't worry, there's a happy ending.

I've fought the urge to start a blog for a long time now, writing it off as a self-indulgent endeavor. But the thing is, I love reading other people's blogs, self-indulgent or not.

I am a firm believer in the power of stories to shape, motivate, heal, and transform. A few months ago I distinctly heard God whisper to me "to write My love story." That is, the story of his transforming love and grace in my life.

So here, in a mismatched collection of posts riddled with my thoughts and percolations and amateur attempts at poetry and wisdom, is a love story. Amid self-indulgence (okay, I admit I like it when people read my stuff) I hope to find grace and connection. I hope that in this space I can be true to myself, to the heart and brain that God has created me with, and to the story of God's love for me.

I hope also that my stories connect with you, that they allow me in some small way to befriend not only my past, myself, and my creator, but you. So these are my memoirs. These are my attempts to "write my love story."

This is a story of God Woos Girl.

If it weren't for You...

If your giant hands hadn’t burned their warmth around my heart, my egg yolk blood would have spilled out and over beyond redemption.

I would be as numb and stale as the dried pink flowers fading into her tombstone.

My hands would sit idle and useless, and my eyes would be a vacant lot, abandoned and lifeless.

The urgent foreign language of cruelty and oppression would flicker across the screen of Fox News as indecipherable hieroglyphs before my eyes.

I would give my body to anyone who asked, ignoring the venomous effects of lustful intoxication.

I would laugh with my friends, but tears would be pumping through my veins.

I would obediently recite a mantra of justice, love, and helping the poor, but I would treat myself with cruel injustice and self-loathing.

My situation would evoke more pity than starving children, protruding bellies, and skies dense with smoke and sorrow.

All of my knowledge, A’s, and nods of approval would sink like pencil shavings to the bottom of a wasted life.

The pain and hurt would dissolve into emptiness.

If there’s no reason to love then there’s no reason to hurt.

If there’s no reason to hurt then there’s no reason to feel.

Feeling would become a memory like my timid first day of kindergarten or my skeptical, yet steadfast belief in the Easter bunny.

If your giant hands hadn’t burned their warmth around my heart, my egg yolk blood would have spilled out and over beyond redemption.

If it weren’t for You…

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