The first time I was inspired to write was when I was a teenager.
Full of angst and vision. My words were too big for my life in Western Michigan. My thoughts felt too complex for a story or a written idea. I only found my outlet in poetry.
My poetry was grandiose and full of words pulled from the Romantic poets and classic literature that I loved to read. My very first email address was theladyofshallott82@_______.com. At that point, I was more committed to Tennyson than any guy I was currently crushing on.
My vocabulary is amazing, and my spelling is absolutely hopeless. Without spellcheck, I would be considered barely literate.
I basically read my way through high school, barely stopping to glare at my math textbook or lie to my mom about how much of my foreign language program I was actually doing.
I used to have a deal with myself that if I did one math problem, I would allow myself to read a chapter in my book. This solution usually worked well for one problem. Then I would read one more chapter. And then just finish the book.
I secretly believed it was my destiny to be discovered one day—if not while alive, then at least after I died. My obvious talent might only be realized once I was dead. My poetry would be my emotional connection to the living world.
As a 17-year-old, I would agonize over giving my poems the correct feel or rhythm.
I felt like my voice was worth hearing, my perspective worth explaining.
So I would write. In journals and in the margins of pages and on loose notebook paper. I would write whenever I was sentimental or if I had something to say.
I would write.
Until I stopped.
One day, I just stopped writing. Stopped journaling. Stopped trying to communicate my words, my perspective. Stopped trying to explain my view of things.
The feelings I had always held so close to my heart—the feelings that came alive with music, heartache, and vision — seemed to fade into a comfortable kind of apathy.
My kids were little and needy. The house was always messy, and there was always a project with a deadline. My brain was continuously tired. Too tired to care what I was feeling, much less communicate it to someone else in written form.
Years passed, and things didn’t get easier. They seemed to just get harder. More responsibility, less sleep. Bad health and frantic living. As fear and faith continued to fight for my attention, the idea of chronicling any of my journey felt more like a chore than an expression of my heart.
As my experiences grew, my ability to cope with this world on my own terms became more futile.
I’ve found that more living equals more release.
More maturity equals less knowing.
Years ago, I had much more to say than I do these days. My voice has been seemingly hushed by the majestic as well as the horrific.
My teenage scribbled thoughts and overly dramatic prose are still part of my legacy. But the passionate fire that fueled me in high school has burned itself up, and with it, all the chaff that it contained.
What’s left is just me.
And I think I’m trying to decide if I still have something to say.
I don’t know yet if I do. But lately, I’ve started wondering if that’s the wrong question.
Maybe writing was never supposed to begin with knowing what I had to say. Maybe it began with paying attention.
And maybe that’s what I’m learning to do again.
Not with the motivation of having something earth-shattering or unique to say, but because what I’m learning and realizing is worth noticing. It’s worth sharing—not for the benefit of humanity, but because I need to experience the truth in it for myself.
To sit in the revelation.
To give it my attention.
To allow the Lord to change me because of it.
Maybe I don’t need to write because I have something to say.
Maybe I need to write because I’m still becoming.
Still being sanctified by His truth, not my own.
And maybe there are places in your story where the Lord is asking you to do the same — to slow down long enough to pay attention. To notice what He’s revealing, to sit with the truth of it, and to allow it to change you.
With love and hope,
Lacey
