I Pretend to be a Writer

Last year I went through a short (but really awesome...wish it didn't stop) phase as a writer. I feel like it's pretend though, like I don't really know what I'm doing, but it is what it is. Some of you have already heard this.

But Christmas is coming, so I thought sharing this would be so very relevant. I wrote this as a Christmas piece but also was overwhelmed by His use of anyone. We may want one thing but God may use us for another thing.  If we are not ready for whatever that may be, God prepares us in His way.  I'm not explaining this well, but you catch my drift. Anyway, sometimes when I write I pretend to be creative but it just comes out as cheesy. Sometimes cheesy is good though. Big advocate of cheesy right here:)

My trunk stands sturdy and straight.

My branches are many, and with grace they mark their territory.

My leaves are a green never seen, brilliantly bright and shaped uniquely--each and every one.

The days that bring mighty winds are my favorite.

With pride I show off the splendid work He has made in me.

My branches sway left, right, up, down. There is nowhere they can't turn.

The leaves twirl with the utmost joy, more than willing to allow the strongest of winds to lead them in a whistling, rustling, breath-taking dance.

But, yet, I am happy in the most still of nights. To be a resting place to a wide-awake owl, to be one which a slithery snake twists around in its slumber. A beam for the honey bees to hang their home, which beholds their hard work's worth of sweet golden honey.

And then it happens. Pain, agony. I try to remain strong, to stay sturdy and continue to dance in the wind. But there is none. Everything is eerily still and although the sun is shining its brilliant light, it feels darker than any night.  I am no longer kept company by owls, snakes, or bees.

There can be no explanation.  My tall, majestic trunk, my outstretched branches, my active leaves.  They are no more. I find myself, instead, in pieces.  How can this be? What I had thought is not.

Something is done to me--something I do not understand.  Someone is working on me--working in me.  I find myself to be in the small, humble shape of a manger.  Still, an explanation doesn't come.

In a place called Bethlehem, I am in the company of smelly animals--puffy sheep, spotty cows, loud donkeys, even a tall camel.  A woman moans uncontrollable as the man watches, prays, anticipates.  I sit empty and curious, still puzzled and even bitter.  

If only I were dancing in the wind.

I regret my bitterness immediately.  My branches have turned to boards that form a manger and they are filled with warmth.  Every board--every grain--warmth. Joy. Fulfillment. Peace.

This baby that I hold, I wish I could cover it as well.  His tiny hands will soon create miracles. His tiny feet will walk thousands of miles with the sole purpose to bring people joy. 

His tiny lips will soon form words that no one has ever heard, and those words will touch the very hearts and souls of humans. And those eyes, oh, those beautiful baby blue eyes. There is pure, unconditional love in those eyes.

I am holding a King. I am holding THE King.

It all becomes clear.  The agony, the confusion, the loneliness. I suffered so that His kingdom may grow, thrive.  As a once-strong tower turned into a tiny, dirty manger, I was blessed. I helped further His kingdom. I held Jesus!

The man and woman are resting, the animals are eating their fill.  

"Jesus," I whisper, "Thank You for taking me and using me, despite my doubt. Despite my meekness, my frailty.  You can use anything, You can use anybody."