Life is a book unwritten. Only you hold the pen.
Have you ever read something that immediately resonated in your spirit? I can make that claim with this phrase. I first saw it several years ago while shopping at Hobby Lobby, and it resonated so deeply that I immediately purchased the vinyl letters to display on a wall in my office.
This phrase encompassed so much of what I believed, and it delivered it in two succinct sentences. We are all writing a story with our lives. Every sunrise unveils another page, starts another chapter of the book each of us is authoring. Even more, I believed we should all feel empowered to write the story we want told. We wield the pen that’s adding words to each and every page. Our choices, our actions are the strongest determinants of the story that’s being drafted, just as each keystroke on my laptop is slowly drafting this blog post.
Maybe it’s because I love writing, that these words held such profound meaning for me. Writing is a form of therapy for me, a creative outlet, and time spent writing is cathartic for me in many ways. Holding the pen gives me control over the words pouring onto the page. I choose them with caution. I write and edit and rewrite to fit the needs of the storyline.
More than writing blog posts or fictional stories, though, I love writing my story, the story that is found in my life’s book. These words I choose with utmost selectiveness. I pause the pen in seasons of uncertainty; the pen quickly fills pages upon pages of text in seasons of excitement and joy. I write and edit and rewrite… to fit the needs of my storyline.
Life is a book unwritten. Only you hold the pen.
With time, this phrase became my motivator, a mantra on the days that I needed to feel inspired. Is life not going the way you want? You control the plot, so change it. Tired of feeling stuck in a rut? Start a new chapter. You hold the pen – use it!
A friend recognized how much I believed in this phrase and had it embroidered on a pillow as a gift to me. You read that correctly; I legitimately own a pillow with this phrase embroidered on it, such was my devotion to the concept of personal culpability. Pick up the pen, Jennifer. Your story’s not going to write itself. Beautiful phrases embroidered on pillows don’t lie.
This beautiful phrase did, though. This beautiful, lofty phrase was exposed as a blatant lie the moment my storyline crashed headlong into a storyline that I didn’t author.
With the turn of a single page, the plot of my carefully constructed autobiography twisted in a direction I didn’t see coming. It was in this moment that I realized that someone else was writing my story, too. It devastated me to know that someone had the ability to snatch the pen from my hand and slash black ink across my cautiously drafted pages.
With one violent stroke of that pen, I entered a season of pain that I didn’t write. My cherished book laid tattered and torn. Crisp, clean pages – destroyed by the actions of another. My tears mixed with my meticulously selected words, blurring them beyond recognition and forever marking my pages with a deep hurt that couldn’t be edited and rewritten.
Never would I have authored this storyline, and yet, here I was, living it. My questions echoed in the silence: Where do I go from here? What will become of the shattered book at my feet?
Who’s really holding the pen?
Time has passed. I’m still processing and healing, though I haven’t written much. The pen has been mostly quiet, but I felt a stirring in my soul today to write.
It seems fitting. Today is Resurrection Sunday, the day we celebrate the greatest plot twist of all time. From the shock of Judas’ betrayal to the violence of the cross, from the torn curtain within the Holy of Holies to the victory of an empty tomb – the storyline that takes us from Good Friday to Resurrection Sunday is so unbelievable, it could never have been authored by man.
Yet that’s not the story that seems to be stirring my soul this weekend. Instead, I am focusing on variations of the Easter theme that have inundated my social media:
It’s Friday… but Sunday’s coming!
Darkness fell, his friends scattered, hope seemed lost – but heaven just started counting to three…
Saturday’s silence was Sunday’s empty tomb!
Quick, succinct sentences that encompass the redemption of a storyline that none of the disciples would have willingly authored. They’re true statements, but to be transparent with you, they feel trite. Please don’t misunderstand, these are words that I wholeheartedly celebrate, but I can celebrate them because I’m on the other side of the Sunday promise. These words resonate with me because I know that Resurrection Sunday followed the crucifixion.
Such was not the case for the followers of Jesus. Imagine speaking these words to one of Jesus’ disciples on Friday night:
It’s Friday, Peter… but don’t worry because Sunday’s coming!
It doesn’t make sense today, Mary… but heaven’s just counting to three!
Ridiculous, right? In the midst of the betrayal and hurt and confusion, those words would have been meaningless because they weren’t yet on the other side of the resurrection. Yes, Jesus had told them that he would die and be raised again in three days, but I believe these were words for which they had no context. It took time to understand the meaning of Jesus’ words, time to journey past the silence of Saturday to the promise of Sunday.
With the turn of a single page, their carefully constructed ministry was nailed to a cross, ushering in a season of pain that they didn’t write. I can hear the sorrow in their whispered questions: “Where do we go from here? What will become of the shattered book at our feet?”
Who’s really holding the pen?
Two thousand years later, I’ve asked those same questions. But that stirring in my soul today? I feel His comfort blowing across my spirit like a gentle breeze:
Even in the silence of Saturday, you can trust that I’m writing the promises of Sunday. I’m holding the pen, and your story is safe in My hands.
That’s the reassurance my heart needed today, friends. Reassurance that even as I struggle to breathe inside the silence of Saturday, the Sunday promises of God echo from the empty tomb.
When all I see are the tear-stained pages of a story that no longer makes sense, I can trust that He has plans to use the shattered book at my feet for good. When my storyline crashes into yours in ways that look like absolute destruction, all hope isn’t lost. It may take longer than three days – it probably will – but every drop of ink on the page will be used for His story and ultimate glory. Not a single stroke of His pen will be wasted.
For today, that’s more than enough for me – to know that my story will not end inside the silence of Saturday. And to trust that, through your story and mine, He’s still writing Sunday promises.
He’s holding the pen. Your story is safe in His hands.
You saw me before I was born. Every day of my life was recorded in your book. Every moment was laid out before a single day had passed.
Psalms 139:16 NLT
Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.”
Hebrews 12:2 Berean Study Bible