I have A L W A Y S loved to write stories. Short stories, entire books, dramatic poems, you name it. Writing is my go-to when I need to process or if I’m just bored out of my mind. I love creating worlds and people to live in them. I love intertwining stories with other stories. I love plot-twists and happy endings and tragically beautiful mishaps and everything in between. Growing up a reader no doubt fueled the writing fire, and it’s only grown since childhood.
But… all of my stories are made up.
Some of my stories are totally and completely made up, just a figment of my imagination. But sometimes I base characters off of real people. Sometimes I base events off of real events. But all of my stories are mostly made up, and it’s because I like them better that way. What actually happened, the actual people, are often too much or not enough of something in my opinion, so I change it until it fits in my box. The event was too boring so I add a few things. The actual person was too quiet so I make the character louder. I fixate on what I didn’t like about reality, and I alter it until it’s no longer reality, but somehow better.
I create stories so often, sometimes in my own head just to pass the time, that I’ve started to do it with my everyday life. I like to call it excessive daydreaming. Or daydreaming on crack. (I think it’s more than your typical daydreaming, but I don’t know what other people’s daydreams are like, so maybe it isn’t.) I imagine my future or events in my past that didn’t go the way I wanted them to, and I make up stories. I either fill in the unknown of my future and make it into something I want it to be, or I re-write the past into something more comfortable.
My future is my favorite thing to write stories about. I write stories about my future career, my future family, what the World Race will be like, even specific conversations I’ll have with specific people. I don’t just wonder, I create. I answer my own questions. I write my own stories.
But I can’t write this one.
When it comes to imaging the World Race and writing stories about it, I pause. It’s a little harder than I thought it would be. I only have a few sure details to go off of, everything else is up to me to create. My teammates? Got ‘em. My clothes? Check. My gear? Oh yeah. Everything else? I have absolutely no idea.
I’ve tried to write stories about day-to-day life on the race, and I don’t even know where to begin. What’s the setting? How do I feel? How does everyone else feel, and how do they act because of it? What do we do? Where do we go? I have zero answers. It was incredibly frustrating at first because I wanted so badly to write stories about this incredible adventure I’m about to call reality. How can I be so unsure about so many things? What kind of story is this?
It’s not mine to write. I can’t write this one.
Every time I decide on what the setting of my chosen story on the race will be, God gently whispers “you can’t write this one.”
Every time I feel sure that something will happen because that’s what I’ve decided, God slides me a note that says “you can’t write this one.”
Every time I tell myself that a particular person will do and say a particular thing or be a particular way, God every so lovingly reminds me: “you can’t write this one”.
I can’t tell the future, try as I might. I can’t decide when some events will occur. I can’t pick which people will be apart of my life and control how they’ll react to me. I can’t lay out the foundations of my perfect world race experience and calculate each movement and do the math before each step until I’m sure that’s what I want. I can’t write this one.
I am a person who thrives on control, but when it comes to the race, I have almost none. It’s incredibly exciting and a huge growth opportunity, but also substantially terrifying to a person like me. God patiently reminds me over and over again as I continually ignore His whispers and notes and try to write my own future. He keeps taking the pen and paper out of my hands as He patiently repeats the same thing over and over again because I often ignore what I don’t want to hear: you can’t write this one.
I can’t write this one.
But I think it has to do with more than just letting go of control. I think this is such a huge part of my life, such a game changer, such an important aspect of who I am, that if I were to try to write it, I would ruin it. There is no better version of the story than His. There are no better characters, no better plot-twists or happy endings or tragically beautiful mishaps or everything in between. There is nothing I can do or say or write that will make what’s already written even an ounce better. If I were to get my hands on this story, it would no longer be the masterpiece that it is. It would become paced out and specific with step-by-step instructions and all around dull. It would become man-made. It would become less.
I can’t write this one.
And because I can’t write this one, it’s all the more phenomenal. It’s all the more beautiful and crazy and riveting and frightening.
I hate that I can’t write this one, because it’s what I try so hard to do. And I love that I can’t write this one, because I know that it’s just going to be so much better than anything I can imagine.
I can’t write this one.
But you can bet your booty that I’m gonna be writing it all as it comes. I’m just not the author of this one. He is. Holla.
I get on a plane to Cote d’Ivoire in 24 DAYS!!! GOD IS SO GOOD, Y’ALL!!
***My next fundraising deadline is in a couple short weeks and I’m still in need of a few bucks. Don’t be afraid to hit that donate button! Any amount is so much appreciated, and Thank You from the bottom of my heart!***
