My, Faith

My creativity is a worn and dotted line. It’s been stretched out across my life span.
And although it’s been drawn poorly I still aim to use it—possibly to tie up some running shoes; the kind that win marathons and scale tall buildings in leaps so clean and tidy. I aim to use it as a rope; a strong climbers rope snaked through a pulley and hoisting all that weight in muscle and bone. I aim to use it as a wire run across a land so vast no eye has yet to see both coasts; a wire used to communicate messages to far off other lives and lands and worlds and places.
And yet, through all this aiming my wire is still a thin and dotted weakling; a spattering of line and blank page. But I cannot bother with that truth. Because as soon as I start to bother with it another truth is thrust up against it so crisp and towering-huge. This truth gives my faith leave to grow. Because when He is the dot and the stretch between my weakly spattered line, then my line becomes His line. And His line is not a line at all but a lace, a rope, and a wire.