Each day hands me a clean sheet of paper upon which to write. Therefore, I would be wise to write without ever having the need to erase.

We are living out the drama of a pathetic story whose pages are smeared with our own handwriting.

We have the power of the pen to write the next chapter, and the privilege to author the page in whatever fashion we choose. Yet, seldom do we understand the power of the pen and the privilege of the page.

It’s not saying something that’s been said a million times before. It’s saying something that’s been said in a way that feels as if it was missed a million times before.

To take a thought, to gingerly package it in a handful of words, and then to deliver it to a person for whom both the thought and the words within which it came are life-saving is writing at its best. Anything else is scribbling at its worst.

Authorship of anything apart from God is nothing more than a tragedy in the making.