When I read the ghastly lines of tragedy darkly penned into my life, I turn and notice that the pen in my hand is wet.

I am the greatest obstacle to my greatest dreams.

I craft most of my own tragedies without ever having even the remotest understanding that it is I myself who have done the crafting.

If I choose to take the pen from God and write the story of my life without Him, I better have plenty of erasers and a whole lot of white-out. Better yet, I should invest in a good shredder.

I decry the injustice of my wounds, only to look down and see that I am holding a smoking gun in one hand and a fistful of ammunition in the other.

It takes but a handful of words to ambush my soul with hope. Yet, the vexing question in it all is why do I so often ambush the words?