Last year I produced three books, the last of which has just
been released. Writers tend to write of
their own experiences and what they know. These writings were an abstract of my
own spiritual growth and—acceptance. I
did not know when I began them that they would become my gift to God, and His
gift to me. I felt a presence often, but
it was not until the third book that I knew who it was.
I know there are some of you rolling your eyes, or popping
your lips at that. I know one friend in
particular who will think I have gone stupid.
I have taken to telling that friend that it takes as much faith for them
to believe there is no god as it does for me to believe there is; perhaps it
takes him even more.
It is life that has not been good to me, not God. Whatever He is, whatever mystery He weaves He
has kept me in it. I have very little to
give Him in return. So I chose to make
the last book a gift back.
Still my books are not holy crusades; just abstracts, some
reflection of what I have endured. I
wanted to share that, because now that they are written I feel relieved that I
gave something back to God. The problem I
face now is how do I move on from that?
