I love stories. Fiction and non-fiction alike. Stories, imagined or real, that tell the tale of redemption, beating the odds, the overcomer and the passionate. The emotions alone stirred up with this heart of mine at the very word uttered from someone’s lips are proof of this ongoing zeal for the written tale.

Recently, I took an unplanned break from weekly pouring into this love of mine for writing, specifically stories. I found it difficult to direct the path the story line should take, find the time to work at it and muster up the motivation to attack it. Essentially, it got hard, so I checked out.

I was reminded yesterday during our church service that opposition to a calling should not only not be a reason to quit, but should also be expected. When God is in it, the enemy hates it. He’ll throw whatever scum he can at God’s people to keep them down or stop their progress.

So it’s been with my writing.

So it’s been with life lately.

The feelings of rejection, subjection, one-thing-after-another, have left me reeling in the hurt, frustration, resentment and heartache. I’ve tried to hide. I’ve tried to pretend the problems don’t exist. Yet they do, even when the door to the basement is closed, the broken car is parked out of view, the texts I haven’t gotten have gone unnoticed and our first adoption fundraiser updates are ignored.

However, as time continues to press us forward, distancing us from the latest catastrophe seemingly onto the next, I’m daily being reminded: I asked for this. No, not in so many words. I certainly did not wish for a third of our home to be earmarked virtually unusable for the next several months as the slow process of refinishing my once finished basement takes shape. I didn’t ask for the car to break or technology to fail me. We did, contrarily, decide to follow the call placed on our family. As one friend put it, right now we are making some bold strides for the Kingdom of Heaven and satan doesn’t like it. (By the way, I’m done capitalizing his name. I can’t bring myself to do it any longer. I’d rather look at the red squiggly line from the built-in editor than to capitalize a word referencing the enemy of my faith and Creator.)

The hope I’m clinging to in this world’s muck as of late is simple, yet profound: I’m making the enemy tremble. As well he should. For what I read in my Bible says God wins. God is the victor, past, future and present. My hope is not in my house for it’s built of sticks. My hope is not found in the rusting car or the already outdated technological advances surrounding me. It’s not in my frustrations of our finances, the numbers that make me swoon. Or even in the flesh and blood of those I love and adore. No. It’s lies solely in the insurmountable Power, the Counselor, living inside of me and the promise He’s given of that which is eternal. I don’t have to focus my attention on the crashing waves about me when the horizon stands constant just beyond them.

My hope is unmovable.

It’s certain.

It’s constant.

So, I’ll keep writing and letting Him write. These stories are far from finished. Stories of rising above the adversity to the treasure waiting just beyond the trials. This is the story God is writing. With every hardship, heartache and frustration and every moment of joy, victory and love in between, He writes the tale. He’ll keep writing as long as I continue to follow.

And follow I will.