Can You Help Me Please?

Dear Readers,

The blinking cursor on the blank screen felt like a mocking heartbeat. I stared at it, waiting for inspiration to strike, but nothing came. My mind was a tangle of thoughts too many feelings, too much pain, and no clear way to turn any of it into words.

I leaned back in my chair, running my hands through my hair. Writing had always been my outlet, my way of making sense of the chaos inside me. But lately, even that had felt impossible. Every idea I started seemed to fall apart before it even had a chance to take shape.

"Why can’t I do this anymore?" I muttered to myself, the frustration bubbling up.

I stood up and paced the room, glancing at the photographs on my desk. Pictures of my children, their smiles frozen in happier times. Pictures of places I’d visited, memories of simpler days. And then, there was the picture of my parents, their faces filled with quiet strength.

I sat back down and let out a long sigh. "Jesus, I don’t know what to write. I don’t even know if I can write. But if You’re here, if You’re listening, can You help me Please?"

The room was silent, save for the ticking of the clock on the wall. I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. The tension in my shoulders eased just a little, and I opened my eyes again.

I began to type, not knowing what would come out. At first, the words were hesitant and awkward, but soon they started to flow. Memories surfaced moments I hadn’t thought about in years. I wrote about sitting in the rain, feeling like the world was closing in. I wrote about the love I have for my children, the ache of missing them, and the hope that one day they might understand.

As I typed, it felt less like I was creating something and more like something was being given to me. The words felt familiar, as though they had always been there, waiting for me to find them.

The story that emerged wasn’t perfect, but it was real. It held pieces of my pain, my hope, and my faith. And somehow, it felt like more than just my own voice.

When I finished, I leaned back and read over what I’d written. Tears welled up in my eyes not from sadness, but from a sense of relief. I wasn’t alone in this. Jesus had been there, guiding my thoughts, and helping me find the words I needed.

I whispered a quiet "thank you," knowing that this was just the beginning. Writing wouldn’t erase the struggles, but it would give me a way to face them, to process them, and maybe even to heal.

And in that moment, I realized that writing wasn’t just a talent or a hobby it was a gift, one I could use to share not only my story but also the hope and love I had found in Him.

Reflection:

Creativity is a gift, one that God places in our hearts to help us process, heal, and connect with others. When we feel stuck or uncertain, Jesus meets us in that space, guiding our hands and hearts. He doesn’t just help us create; He helps us find meaning in our struggles, reminding us that we can use our stories to share His love and hope with the world.

God Bless Us All…

Jacob M