You know what good storytelling feels like. It’s being ten, sitting in the theatre seats where your feet hang down, barely reaching the floor, and you watch Luke Skywalker blow up the Death Star. Or, you’re sitting in front of the television, too close for your parents. It’s not concern for your vision, but because they can’t see the screen. But they watch with you, seeing Hawkeye leave Korea in a helicopter with one final message from his friend B.J. Goodbye.

A good story makes you repeat the lines of your favorite characters:

As you wish.

May the force be with you.

We’re gonna need a bigger boat.

They’re here!

And, one of my personal favorites:

I’ve got a bad feeling about this.

Those feelings and images? They stick with us. We feel it, letting the shivers traverse our spines. We like it, because it makes us feel. Scared. Happy. Excited. Afraid. Bored. That’s what a great story will do.

So fear comes when I think that no one gets it. It makes me wonder if Lucas or Spielberg ever felt that before one of their movies was released into the wild unknown of the audiences. Did they panic thinking no one would get it?

That’s the fear I’m familiar with. It’s being afraid that the work isn’t good enough for publications like Image Journal or The Sun. It’s real. It’s scary. And it makes me want to quit, give up, and take my ball and go home.

Then I remember my why. Why I keep doing this writing jazz. What is it I believe about my gift of storytelling? That I have something unique and special. A talent that I can take out to the world and show them Jesus loves them too.

All his promises and words? They still echo through the years, still here today. They never left! Jesus lived. Died. And he came back to life. If those words didn’t pass away, and his promises came true? It leaves only one option. He is alive. And that means I have nothing to fear. Not even death!

It’s the foundation, not a footnote of my life. Grief could’ve swallowed me whole. With Jesus, I walked through it. I felt betrayal, long enough to understand it, name it, and write about it. I ran 40.25 miles in the cold because I knew my body could take it. Plus, it helped that I knew God was on my side, running with me.

I knew Alissa when I met her. In a world filled with chaos, wrong turns, missteps, and mistakes, I knew she was what God wanted for me. A woman who didn’t make me happy. She made me better. She would challenge me, love me for the messy person I am. And our friendship, our foundation would be leaning on Jesus first, then each other. That kind of clarity comes from walking through fire, getting burned, and being made whole by Jesus.

Jesus knows what I’ve been through. He gets it. Gets me. All of what I have to give.

So being afraid that my writing isn’t good enough? Yeah. I get it. That comes from forgetting where I came from and how God walked with me through all of it.

My story? These words? No one is going to remember what I wrote. Will my stories be cataloged into a journal or library? Probably not. But Jesus? His words? They will. (They’ve survived this long!) So instead of being afraid, I’m going to follow him, stick close by. And tell stories about his goodness, his love, and how he changed my life.

He is alive.

He can hold together whatever I put on the page.

I have nothing to fear. Not even death.

Is it a pep talk?

Or blind optimism?

Nope. It’s my story.

God loves me.