My grandfather wrapped our house in prayer; my mother, in literary phrases. I can still hear her saying, "Water, water everywhere but not a drop to drink." They tendered words and prayer as gifts. I love words. I became an English teacher and then a consultant with a heavy focus reading and rewriting, wrestling for the perfect phrase and living in global revision. In 2009 I got divorced. I lost everything and joined the ranks of the working homeless. I slept in my car when not traveling for work. I wrote school review reports in coffeeshops. Stripped of all things in the natural, the Lord reminded me through one of his servants that I hadn't lost him. I was stripped of distraction and could now see him clearly that his blessing was never in things amassed; his blessing was in knowing him, and I would write about it, exploring facets of him and his Word. I would write about God's promises and his children waiting on him in a firm belief that his Word cannot be broken and that he cannot lie. He wakes me up in the middle of the night at times, and I have to write. He'll point out when flesh rises in the writing-when the writing is too full of itself, and he's not in it and what needs to be deleted. I've learned to write under his guidance, to write in the spirit.