The Blank Page
Every day it waits for me. It may be early, late or somewhere in-between. I open the book or flip open the laptop. It’s all the same. It waits and calls for me.
The blank page.
Each day I write. Something. It may be short. It may not. Sometimes it’s good. More often something else. No matter, I write. The next day?
The blank page. Fresh. Clean. New. Blank. Filled with possibilities. Leading to new places and incredible journeys.
Some times are harder than others. Often, the words come easy, as though the fingers have a mind of their own, knowing before even I do what they will write. Others, though, the blank page sits there waiting to shaped and molded, wrestled with in which to become something of use.
It stares back, begging to be put to use, knowing that it is useless without words. It warns that if I don’t get to work then neither one of us will meet our potential.
Each day is a blank page. The sky opens up with the dawn. It brings hope that today will be greater than the day before. It brings a faithfulness that produces new mercies each day. New eyes to see. New ears to hear. A new heart.
Chances to display the words and actions that will overcome those that are left behind. Yesterday.
The blank page is there before us. What will we make of it?
What will you do with the blank page today?