Heroes & The Hard Things

Hello Readers,

My heroes have been many different people over the years. Men and women, fictional and real, famous or unknown, these people have inspired me. They have made me try harder, reach further, dig my feet in when the world tries to pull me off the edge.

I want to surpass my heroes. I want to dig in deeper, fight harder, be smarter. I want to fight like my life is too short to care about what people think of me. I want to sing when I feel a song in my soul, I want to write the words that buzz in my fingers, I want to tell people I love them without reserve or “only when”s.

I want to do all these things, and I try to do them, but the fact remains that I get scared.

This life feels long to me. The songs too awkward, the people too broken, the words too hard.

But the truth is, this life isn’t long. And I can’t do the hard things. But He can, so I don’t need to be strong. I am weak, I know this, but if God is strong, then I can be too.

Somehow, it’s hard to remember this.

It’s hard to sing when you sometimes forget the tune and your voice wavers.

It’s hard to write when the words don’t flow and things don’t make sense, when the plot doesn’t come together and the characters don’t seem genuine.

It’s hard to tell people you love them when you don’t always feel like you do. When they do things that you don’t love and it’s hard to remember to see the person and not the filth they are smearing on themselves.

The things we want to do, need to do, are hard.

But I hope I will do them. Today and tomorrow and the next day. The next week. This year. Next year.

And at the end of my life, I hope I will stand before my Maker, my first and last Hero, and look him in the eyes as my knees shake and tremble because my inspiration, the comforter of my soul, is standing in front of me. I hope that while I stand in front of him, my mouth dry and a grin on my face, that I will force out the words “I did my best with what you gave me.” That I will mean them. That then, the words will tumble and I will tell my Father what I did.

I wrote the words that you put into my soul. I sang the songs that you handed me to sing. I loved the people you put into my life. I followed in your footsteps.

This is what I want to be able to say.

All of my heroes are fighters.

I hope I will be one too.

I want to fight to write the words that He’s given me, to sing the songs that play on repeat in my heart, to love everyone with open arms.

This is my heart, and it is many of yours. So let’s fight for this.

May the grace and strength of God allow us to do so.


Who are your heroes? What do you want to say at the end of your life? 


The Power of Writing Stories

Hello Readers,

I think a reason why I love writing so much is that I can showcase the best of humanity. I can show sides of human nature that we don’t see often. I can have characters be self-sacrificing.

I can write what we want to be. Selfless and merciful. I can spin tales that show what we so desperately want to be. A story can change a life.

It can save a person.

Words are very, very powerful.

We read fiction, because inside us all is an ache that there’s something else out there. That there are heroes, that there is still good and we can fight for it. That life can be extraordinary. And exciting. That we can do so much more. That we can change the world. That the small things in life matter most.

We wish for mysteries and magic and a purpose.

While there is no magic wardrobe, no madman with a time traveling box, no Middle-Earth, no Sherlock Holmes, there is a purpose.

We have a purpose. A meaning. 

Out of fiction, people have been drawn to the gospel, because everything, everything good in this world points to it.

Self-sacrificing hero prepared to die for his friends.

How many times do we see this repeated in fiction? And we love it. So, so much. We crave it. This good person that we want to be so badly, but that we know we can never be.

Guess what?

That happened. 

There was a hero. Who gave up everything for his people. Left his home, his throne, his wealth to become like us. And he lived the life we could never live. Was perfect in every way. Was tempted in every way, but he overcame it all.

Then he died.

This amazing, amazing man who was God in the flesh, who came to become one of us. He died. And we, we were the ones who killed him. We laughed and scoffed and shouted and he died praying for us. The rebellious fools who killed their escape from the darkness.

The world despaired. The sun went dark. People wept.

It seemed as if all hope was lost. That Evil had won completely. And Evil laughed at us, us foolish people, for killing our one escape. We were trapped. For three days, we were trapped.

Then the grave opened.

It opened.

Our hero was alive.

This isn’t fiction. This happened. And we take this story, and without knowing entirely why, we convey it everywhere.

We love a good hero.

Has anyone bothered to ask why?

Because somewhere, in the corners of our heart, is a cry for a hero. 

Because we know. We know. We know the story.

And it’s real.

And that brings me back to this purpose I mentioned earlier, that we all crave.

Well, it’s this:

To follow our hero. To be Him to the world. To change the world, to love the world, to stand for what we believe in. And most of all, to glorify Him. Forever. To find people, to tell the news.

There is a reason why Christianity is never stamped out. Why it’s lasted for so, so many centuries.

Because in our darkest moments, in our lightest moments, something in us knows.

We know. We know about our Savior.

We do everything we can to deny it, but it comes out in our art, in our music, in our books and the things we are drawn to.

We ache for a hero. To save us from our ever impending doom.

Guess what?

He loves you. So come home, friends, come home. You know the story. Come Home. Our Savior is waiting for you.