Previous Challenge Entry (Level 3 - Advanced)
Topic: Black (10/15/09)
TITLE: When His Hand Moves Mine
By Linda Boulanger
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The dream burns deep inside. Write, write! The words scream to be let out. In one form or another they pour forth. I use my black pen, always. Sometimes my words are a means of escape. Perhaps the day has not gone as well as expected and I need to vent. The black ink allows me to do so without fear of condemnation or hurting others. Those pages usually get torn into tiny pieces and thrust into the black bag with my other garbage; an act which is most gratifying in itself.
Page upon page I fill with words. Lists, plans, outlines, letters, notes…whatever it takes to make me believe my disorganization is potentially organized. I used to do better back when I had fewer commitments. I wouldn’t trade a single one. I love the journals I kept and the letters I wrote to each of my children as they grew inside of me. Treasured testaments of the joy I felt that God chose me to be their mother; black ink to forever record my thoughts.
My favorite times are when my words tell stories; crafting scenarios, both believable and not. People laugh when I tell them I fall in love with each and every one of my characters. I do! They become very real to me. They make me laugh…and cry. They allow me to experience that which I may otherwise never know. Some days I am a doctor healing others, or a young starlet trying to remain virtuous in a shameless profession. I’ve been a rebellious teenager which, of course, I never was in real life! I’ve fallen madly in love, posed as an unwanted wife, been a wildly successful author or screenplay writer, and have even posed as a cat. I’ve been many animals, though never a pig. I should like to be a pig. They were my daddy’s favorite animal. Someday, when the right story comes, I shall be a pig! The thought makes me smile.
Then there are the times when I feel as if someone else is writing it all instead of me. I expect the story to unfold one way, develop the characters in my mind, map out where they will go, what they will do. I begin to write…Once upon a time…and then I feel it. My story takes on a life of its own. Excitement mounts as I wait to see what these characters will do, where their fictional lives will lead. These are the stories that I know are inspired. They come most often as I sit at my kitchen table in the wee hours of the morning. The small, black-iron fixture illuminates my workspace. Darkness engulfs the rest of the house. It’s peaceful, quiet. I know He’s with me, directing me, sending me to do His work through one of my stories.
Many are the times I have been told “That story touched my heart…” or “I needed to be reminded…” even “May I send your story to my friend? This is exactly what she’s been going through…” Sometimes I simply need to hear the message myself. No matter the reason, I love when He uses me to touch lives.
In my kitchen alone with the blackness all around His arms encircle me and, within that embrace, all that He needs to say is transferred to me. It’s as if His hand covers mine and the story unfolds in a beautiful picture before me. That picture: black ink forming words upon a blank white page.
“Use me, Lord,” I whisper into the blackness of the night.
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