It’s not that I haven’t written. I have. Post after post that I didn’t post. One or two that I did, then removed, dissatisfied—with what they said, or how they said it, or… just with writing, writing, writing…
Written myself into a corner, perhaps I have. Burnt my inner writer out! Or… run low on goodly fuel.
Ah, I think that’s it.
It’s not that ideas are lacking. My head’s been teeming with them. But the work’s been flesh, just too much flesh, and what I need is oil that burns, clean and clear and strong, igniting all those wooden thoughts together, or one by one.
And the Holy Spirit is the oil. And I am the lamp. And this lamp needs fresh filling. By stilling.
On Still Saturday, as snow falls beautiful and silent all around my nest of rest, I draw aside to wait for Him, for fuel, for filling. Stilling.