Awe. Writing. Life.

Sometimes I am nearly brought to tears and awe at this gift.  I read, I write, I love stories.  That's something that's been born in my soul.  It brings me to tears.  Over and over again it's changed my life. But sometimes I lose the love I had at first.  I forget how precious it is to feel the pages of an new book or to breathe in the smell of an old treasure.  I forget what it means to muse over a phrase that sings the song my heart cannot express.   I forget the ways that people in books can make me laugh and see the world in a new way.

But deeper than that- I forget that stories are a way for me to understand the world, understand life, and learn to enjoy life.  I forget the swelling of my soul in worship and amazement in a story of fall and redemption.  I forget the joy that comes with simply being alive and with hearing the stories of the humans on this fallen planet, where a rebellion has been launched and hope is not mere optimism.  I forget that everyone has a story, and that in the telling of stories we are changed beyond what can be described.

And then something sparks me to remember, like the cord that was wiggling out of it's socket has been plugged back in.  Then awe overwhelms me yet again.  Tonight was one of those moments.

Thanks, Father, for the awe of being alive.

Thanks, Father, for the beauty and tragedy and awe scattered like bits of blue flowers among grey plains.

Thanks, Father, for stories.