At the table, pen and white paper waited for him. “What should I write?” he wondered.
The topic was simple and one that had previously stirred his imagination and had resulted in words that were as creative as they were inspiring, infecting others with his passion and vision. But his mind’s eye saw nothing... it was as blank as the paper before Him.
He got up and walked around the house from room to room as if an object, book, even the furniture might bring that flicker of light that started a work. Nothing.
He wondered aloud to himself and Another, “What should I write?”
Silence. And then he heard the faint flicker of the Voice in his head, “Take up your pen and write.”
“Yes, but write about what?”
“Take up your pen...”
Frustrated, he paced around the table, the pen beckoning for his hand and the paper waiting for ink. But he could not sit down. Anxiety gripped his heart and frustration began to creep down the back of his spine.
An hour later he approached the table, as he had several times. Now the dishes in the sink were rinsed and put in the dishwasher, his dirty laundry was in the washing machine, and his room was a little bit cleaner than it had been before.
And the Voice, soft, reassuring, but resilient spoke again, “Take up your pen and write.”
He sat down. It was so hard just to trust and take up the pen when his mind was blank. “Yeah, but...”
“Take up your pen and write.” This time it thundered loudly in his soul. Now he could think of nothing else but the Voice’s words.
He took the pen and drew the blank paper over to his right hand. Suddenly a flicker of thought enlightened his mind. He had a brief vision and a few small words came out. The pen scribbled from this speck of light that had entered where moments before he had only been conscious of the Voice and his blank mind.
A canvas of thought now spread out before him and he tried to keep pace with his mind and imagination. They collided, making words into art and turning art into words. The pen raced to keep pace and at times he had to stop just to let his mind and hand rest.
But the breaks were short. The canvas wanted to be expressed and his mind was not satisfied with incompletion. It wanted to give life and shape and definition to the vision, which he saw faintly in flickers of light.
So he wrote on and on until the vision was given shape, definition, and description. It now breathed life through the words on the page.
He relaxed. The work was done, the paper now containing the expressions born in his mind by the Voice’s prompting. He knew there remained additional steps, but his soul was satisfied and at peace.
The work was not complete. But whereas before he had a canvas, now he had an instrument that just needed some fine-tuning. Then the words would resound and inspire.
It was in that simple trust that the Voice asked him to collaborate. He didn’t know where his anxiety came from, but it always seemed to accompany his inspiration.
He was learning that he had to trust himself. The Voice had confidence and trust in him enough just to say, “Take up your pen and write.” The Voice knew him better than he knew himself.
It knew that he was trustworthy and able to write whenever prompted... creatively, imaginatively, inspiringly, and with His passion. An artist who could grasp the essence of ideas and give them life and breath, much like the Creator. Much like the One they both adored and strove to stir a passion in others for. He was both the Beginning and the End: the inspiration and the masterpiece.
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