God made writers.

Because someone had to frame the moody charm of sunsets, the vastness of the open waters, the rawness of wild lands still untouched, and feeling teeny-tiny on mountain tops.

Because someone had to capture the butterflies of a first kiss, the whirling senses lost in love, the thrill of two pink lines, the pitter-patter of chubby little feet, and the anguish of runaway time.

Because someone had to shore up the gaping craters left behind by the sadness of unforeseen loss, the devastation of a mistake that can’t be undone, and the heart-wrenching grief in hearing, ‘There’s nothing more we can do.”

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Because someone had to describe the houses that built us, the doorways that welcomed us, the rooms that comforted us, and the spaces that healed us.

Because someone had to articulate the moments when we felt fractured, when we felt unfinished, when we felt tarnished, when we felt found, when we felt refined, and when we felt whole.

Because someone had to be the keeper of stories, the holder of the hand-me-down legends, and the painter of portraits that live on the pages of books instead of canvases hung on museum walls.

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Because someone had to fill in the gaps.
Because someone had to turn sentiments into sentences.
Because someone had to lay bare the good, the bad, and the hideous of daily living.
Because someone had to grab the small hours of life and sum them up.

Because sometimes words are the only way to work out the clutter in our hearts and our heads.
Because sometimes the words are hard to find.
But someone had to.

So God made a writer.