The Hurt of the Impossible

It hurts, God, it hurts so much.

I know this story is good, the best I’ve ever done. I know this story is special, a power not of me rippling below the inadequate words. I know this story is unique, something I could not reduplicate even if I tried.

Maybe this is arrogance. Maybe this is ignorance. But this is what I see and what I see hurts.

I ache with longing. Longing to capture that power I feel below the surface and make it evident to all. Longing to meld craft and content so their sum is greater than the parts instead of them fighting each other. Longing to open doors, to see it in print, to touch another heart the way it has touched mine. I long for all the could be’s.

I shiver with fear. Fear that my work will not be good enough. Fear that it will fail as a book and I will become discouraged. Fear that it will wildly succeed and I will forget whose story this really is. I fear all the might be’s.

I cry from sorrow. Sorrow for the child of God who, like me, craves reassurance that God’s love is deep and abiding. Sorrow for those who will fail to see beyond the defective work and darkness of the story, rejecting all with scathing criticism for both it and me. Sorrow for the hurting soul who will want to believe, but will turn away, since it is “only a story.” I cry for all the if only’s.

And my spirit is crushed. Yet…I am not my own. This story does not belong to me. Both it and I rest in the hand of the Master, who is both loving and powerful.

Therefore, I will also rejoice.

God can use the inadequate powerfully.
God can protect me all harm and change the hearts of others.
God can open the closed, unlock the locked, and soften the hardened.

God can do the impossible.