It was a tiny place to scribble wandering twelve-year-old thoughts. A friend had delighted me with the gift: a miniature purple teddy bear journal with irresistibly empty lined pages. I took it with me everywhere. I used every color of ink I owned. It was my own little book, and I loved it. Such a companion was my little book that it surprised me one day to find that I was at its end. No more room to write became unthinkable, so I bought another. And another. And another. And another.

Years passed, and still the pen did not stop. It continued to follow a journey, to record the faithfulness of an irreplaceable Friend, to pray, to search, to plead, to cry, to laugh, to follow hard. And slowly, in a quiet shift of focus, no longer did the pen only write a girl’s thoughts and prayers and wanderings, but it began to write a new gift given:

His thoughts, His Words, His life uttered over me. Spoken beauty.

I had always been captured by words, and yes, by His Words. All words were shimmering treasures to me. But this–Him personally speaking the Word to me–this was all new. Like velvet, His Words wrapped me, cloaked me, delighted me, healed me, guided me. And I was stunned with the life, the breath, the beauty of what He spoke. Such a gift.

The pen wrote on.

Close family and a few friends received glimpses, but rarely were the words shared. Nineteen years and twenty-seven books later, He spoke something that made the pen pause. And then spoke it a second time. And a third. And a fourth.


Although a million reasons that seemed so credible yelled out their protest, His voice whispered gently that gifts are given to be shared, not hoarded, and would the pen write not only for itself but for Him? For others?

The spoken beauty of His words have changed my life.

Yes, Lord. Yes, I will.