The best story Someone else wrote
There was an Author.
He wrote a beautiful epic.
He was the Hero of His own story, as this was often done. He had many counterparts, but all proceeded from the tip of His quill.
Many of His protagonists performed great acts. Seas parted. Bushes burned. Giants fell. Burning orbs could be stopped in the sky. Walls fell. Wisdom was granted. Armies were defeated. Faith of women was not only a subplot, but and integral part of story. Donkeys spoke. Great fish got people back on track. The holy light of God stopped another in his tracks.
This Hero was known in every chapter for saving those around Him.
I am in the middle of one of His paragraphs now.
This paragraph starts with a girl of 10. She always wanted to live up to the Hero’s standards. She had heard all that He had done through people just as messed up as she was. It was one such night of hearing about the Author’s characters that she wanted to have a role in the story as well.
She knew that the only way to enter the plot was to submit fully to the Author. She had already tried so many of her own ways to enter the great story line.
It was that night that she turned away from her messed up narrative and put herself fully in the Author’s hands. She now trusts the Hero to rescue her from her own scenario, and is running headlong into her tiny paragraph.
Her paragraph will be brief in the scope of the Hero’s autobiography, but the story is not about her.
Her years are passing, but the goodness and greatness of the Wordsmith are too amazing to recount.
She is now praying that others will submit their brief days to His beautiful work.
The Author of life became my Hero.
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