My godmother was just days away from her last breath. Pancreatic cancer had hit her once, she beat it. The second time wouldn't prove as promising. I was young and strangely experienced with death, I knew what those final days looked like, the slow decline, labored breathing. Pain. I tried preparing myself. Death sneaks up on you, even when you know it's near.
She held my hand, or maybe I held hers. She was weak and frail.
I promised her.
The years following her death would be a whirlwind. I learned that I had a way with words, gifted even. I chose a career that would highlight that. I took pride in crafting stories that sparked emotion. I had a knack for channeling the voiceless.
Still, her voice haunted me, "Never stop writing."
"I am," I thought. I've built a whole career around writing. However, I knew her final plea was not about what I did for money, but what I did for soul. And then life hit.
Without going into too much detail, yet, it took some painful experiences, isolation, and an overall feeling of despair to convince me to pick up a pen again.
I didn't need convincing, rather, it was all I had left. I wrote with a fervor and desperation that honestly, kept me sane. It was in those moments, where I scribbled out years of frustration, that I began to hear God again. Where I started to understand my purpose again.
Writing connected me back to the creator. He's given me a lot to say, and admittedly sometimes I come up with some wild things to say on my own. But, now I'm channeling that gift. I'm doing what I've promised. I know this is just the beginning.
Anything you've been putting off that you know you're destined to do? Talk to me...