He writes lyrics upon my heart.  Strings of melodies and harmonies alike.  He dances over me with love.  He is for me.  My Heavenly Father, He desires to prosper me, not harm me… and so I daily, hand the pen back to Him.  

Most days, I clutch the pen, white knuckles and all as if I could in any way write the story better than the one who painted the sky, hung the moon, gave me my very breath.  And so I release… and there comes the freedom.

I give you my day, Sweet Lord.  I release my anxious wanderings and fleeting carnal thoughts.  I will let you write the story.  I will ever submit my ways to you.  You weave the story like tapestries of silver and gold.  It looks messy from down here… all jumbled up and mismatched.  

Oh but you, Oh Lord, see from the Heavens… and call it beautiful.  You see, unlike me, the finished work… and call it glorious.  

And so, once again, as I place my feet on the ground and begin my day, I turn it over to you.  The Creator of the earth and sustainer of this life in me.  What I call ugly, you call necessary.  What I say is bad, you say is really for my good.  

How do you tell your story?  Hand the pen over to Him… and simply live.  

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