On the way home from the conference, I ride with my forehead against the window. I’m frozen, like the moment in time where Karen Ball, editor/author/agent extraordinaire, tells me I have an actual gift.
The night is black, with no lights below. I know we’re going over some barren section of the Rocky Mountains. No people, no trees, and maybe even no animals. But the mountains are there just the same. For God.
His creation, fashioned for his glory. Who can say to him, “What are you doing?” (Job 9:12).
So I just sit. And listen.
One thing is very clear. I will write, and I will keep writing, and I will never stop writing.
I need not keep asking that question. When my writing days are over, God will tell me so.
I feel shaken by his presence.
Sifted. Comforted. Awed.
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