lion heart.

Two weeks ago, I almost shut my blog down. 
and this is the story of why I didn't. 
I was seventeen years old when I realized that I could write. I remember the day well. It was one of those impressionable days, the kind that engrave themselves kindly inside of you. It was quiet- her class was always quiet- but that day seemed especially reverent. I went there daily, the obvious reason being because I had to attend class, the other because it was a sanctuary of sorts. In those days, I needed a safe place. I still do sometimes, I suppose. 
It was November, I think, and the rain was pouring hard outside. My seat was close to the window so I could see the pools of water collecting in the chasm between the cement and the grass. I was tired, but so awake. There weren't very many literature inclined people in our class; most people just showed up so they could graduate. I showed up because I thought I might be found. 
That's usually why I write, I guess. 
She started off class in her usual way, with some inspiring quote and a quick word of prayer. And then she said, just like she'd said all the days before, "And remember, when you write: write from what you know." 
It's one of the best pieces of advise I've been given, unbeknownst to me at the time. Because I didn't know a lot then, not really. I didn't know that the pain, the trauma, and the heartbreak that I'd experienced mattered. I didn't know I could write from what I knew, when all I seemed to know felt terribly secretive and shameful. 
But I did know words held power. I knew this because of how their power had affected me. There are words I've read in books that I could quote to you, words that have impressed themselves deep into the folds of who I am. 
Those are the kinds of words I wanted to write. 
I thought about what I knew, pondered what seemingly unimportant thing I could offer to the world. I wanted my words to be grand and bold and impossibly profound. I wanted them to be remembered... because I thought maybe those were the only words that mattered. 
A week earlier I had written an essay. That day my teacher returned it to me. When she came to me, she smiled. I leaned in to read the comment that was written near the top. 
Alyssa, it said, you have the heart of a lion. 
I remembering sitting there for a long moment, staring at the red cursive that inked the paper. The words blurred in front of me. Maybe I could write? Maybe I had something to say?
Then I packed up my things, shoved the paper into a folder, and promptly forgot about it. 
Until yesterday. When out of the blue, the words appeared again. In a vox. *If you don't know what voxer is, go look it up in the app store. It will change your life.* 
Anyway, there they were. Those same words. Five years later. 
"You are a lion-heart."
I walked into my bedroom and dug for that paper from all those years ago, hidden deep inside a box labeled "high school english". I found it. I found it, and I wept. 
Sometimes I feel that lion-heart inside of me. But other times, like two weeks ago, I don't. I feel shy, insignificant. 
Those letters from yesterday, and from five years ago are now permanently embedded inside of me. When she wrote that, the words I had written- the ones I knew surely lacked knowledge and poise and depth- suddenly mattered. 
I write because I'd be wasting a gift that Jesus gave me if I didn't. I write because I have something to say. I write because I hope maybe you'll see a glimpse of the Father's deep desire for you. I write because I love it. 
So whatever your giftings are, use them. I wish I could take you by the shoulders and get you to take the time to see your worth, see your bravery, and see your necessity. 
As for me, I'm going to keep writing. 
Because words matter. 
I hope you trust me when I say this- there's someone out there who will never forget the words you've given them. 
They said I have the heart of a lion. A lion is courage, is boldness, is strength. Lion heart. Brave heart, bold heart. My heart. It beats strong, and it beats courageous. They said I have the heart of a lion. 
Maybe someday I'll believe that it's mine. 
Your words matter. 
and so do you. 
Much love.