“Lord, do words matter? Do stories even mean anything at all?”
She looked at her almost finished book, eyes wistful, heart falling in disdain. Would anyone even read those simple tales? In the world of instant information, would anyone even stop to linger inside the magical world of stories, of deep and lengthy fiction?
“Nobody really reads anymore,” she whispered sadly as she let the precious pages flutter away into the midnight air.
Off they drifted. The storyteller retreated quietly into her heart, deciding to hide herself from her love of words. She’d bask in loneliness and solitude forever. She preferred this to the torment and agony brought about by the frustrations of her passion.
“In the beginning was the Word. The Word was with God and the Word was God.” John 1:1.
“Then He spoke a parable to them, that men always ought to pray and not lose heart.” Luke 18:1.
“Then He told them many things in parables saying…” Matthew 13:3a.
He spoke to them in many parables.
A tiny flame flickered in the storyteller’s heart. It was true. The Great Creator was the Master Wielder when it came to words. He chose to reveal Himself throughout the ages through writings in parchments, in old Jewish scrolls. And He turned to stories whenever He spoke of the Kingdom.
He turned to stories.
Slowly, the flame grew large enough to warm the girl’s almost frozen heart.
A lonely piece of paper sailed through the darkness before her. She saw it because it gave off a somewhat radiant light. It landed right next to her feet and, carefully, she bent down to pick it up.
It was a page from her story. It was stained with doodles and tears, but they weren’t hers. It was accented by distinct fingerprints, but they looked like they belonged to different people. Scribbled at the end of her story were words of thanks, written in varying handwriting, in varying languages.
The flame began to overtake the storyteller and she knew she had to write again.